


The Love Club

by heart_nouveau, notsmokingcamellights



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Alternate Universe - Romantic Comedy, Best Friends, Christmas, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Family, Fluff, Gen, Holidays, London, M/M, Multi, New Year's Eve, Romantic Comedy, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-19 15:03:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 100,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1474099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heart_nouveau/pseuds/heart_nouveau, https://archiveofourown.org/users/notsmokingcamellights/pseuds/notsmokingcamellights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>A Love Actually AU.</b><br/> <br/>It's Christmas season in London and everywhere you look, love is causing chaos. From the bachelor Prime Minister of the United Kingdom who on his first day at 10 Downing Street is taken by his extremely handsome (male) deputy chief of staff, to the young graphic designer who's fallen hopelessly in love with his cousin's bride. From an aging rock star and his struggling ex-wife (with some skeletons of her own); to a just-dumped writer who goes abroad to nurse his broken heart only find solace in his tough-talking housekeeper; to two literature professors with a legendary feud who <i>just</i> happen to settle their differences in the spirit of the holidays--love arrives in many forms, shapes, and sizes.</p><p>Two best friends fall in love at university only to be torn apart by demands of family holidays; a MP and his wife rediscover their undimmed love for one another; the head of one of Britain's top corporations struggles with his new role as a single father and has to come to terms with his new and surprising dependence on his second-in-command. Ten stories of love all progress through Christmas to lead up to a dramatic, romantic climax on New Year's Eve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story is divided by nine chapters by increments of time: **Prologue, Before Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Boxing Day, After Christmas, New Year's Eve, New Year's Day,** and **A Few Weeks Later**.

#  _Prologue_

 

 

**Jon**

Watching Daenerys walk down the aisle of the church, Jon was transfixed.

She was so stunning that it almost took his breath away. He always felt embarrassed when he got too clichéd and artisty – but how could he _not_ be arrested by the way Dany seemed to catch the bright morning sunlight, her face burning with joy under her transparent lace veil? Was he the only person in the chapel who saw how the fall of her wedding gown over the ancient stone floor made her look like some portrait stepped out of time? Jon had studied Madonnas, sat at the feet of centuries-old statues, and diagrammed the proportions of Botticelli’s angels, but none of that even came close to the wonder he felt seeing Dany walk through the church towards him. His heart hammered as he drank in every detail.

He would never forget this day, not until he died.

“The rings?” the vicar said softly at Jon’s right.

Jon startled slightly. “Right,” he responded under his breath, reaching into his suit’s breast pocket. The light clanking sound the rings made as they fell together in the cradle of his palm broke him out of his reverie. He’d helped Robb select both the plain silver band and the princess-cut diamond on a simple circle; Robb had said that his artist’s expertise would be appreciated and Jon, of course, couldn’t refuse. For when had he ever been able to refuse Robb anything? Anything, especially, that had even the slightest to do with Dany?

“Thanks, mate,” Robb said in a hoarse whisper, turning his head just slightly to meet Jon’s eyes. Jon’s cousin looked impossibly handsome in his bespoke suit and iron-grey tie. He positively glowed with happiness, and it was difficult to say who looked more overjoyed—Robb, or the woman who was just minutes away from becoming Robb’s bride.

Jon extended his hand, transferring the rings between them. Together he and Robb turned back to face the contents of the village church and the woman who approached slowly up the aisle before them, walking sedately on the arm of her great-uncle Barristan.

Robb’s eyes were trained on Daenerys as she ascended the podium to stand alongside him, smiling as if her face might break. Side-by-side they were beautiful, like two figures on top of a wedding cake or a pair of Greek statues carved to last together through the ages.

_They belong together,_ Jon thought, his stomach seizing with a horrible feeling that he didn’t want to name. _They’re perfect._

The vicar began to speak, the words of the marriage service filling the tiny chapel. Like everyone else, Jon kept his eyes on his cousin and his cousin’s soon-to-be-bride. He folded his hands behind his back only to realize that they were shaking slightly.

He should know better than to want things he could never have.

 

 

**Catelyn**

Catelyn had promised herself that she wouldn’t cry, but during the exchange of vows she couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down her face. Her husband, who always came prepared, discreetly produced a tissue from his suit pocket faster than she could whip open her tiny formal handbag, and Cat gave him a grateful look as she dabbed at her face. Although Ned kept his eyes firmly trained on the wedding ceremony before them, she saw the corners of his mouth quirk up in that wry smile that she knew and loved. _Damn him for knowing me so well_ , she thought, then hastily reached into his pocket for more tissue as Robb and Daenerys began exchanging rings.

Her first child, married! Catelyn knew that with six children of her own, there would be (God willing) many weddings to come someday. But this was the first one—her firstborn, and the first wedding of any of her children—and that made it special.

A September wedding was always nice; as everyone streamed out of the church after the ceremony, the autumn sun was warm in the yard. Catelyn caught sight of her eldest daughter, Sansa, running about in a beaded seafoam-green frock handing out baskets of rose petals and bottles of soap film. Her younger children were laughing, pushing each another, and trying to see who could produce the longest streams of iridescent bubbles. Presently Robb and his bride emerged from the church laughing happily and holding arms, and crossed the lawn to their car amid a general outcry of well wishes and flower petals. Dany pulled the long train of her flowing skirt behind her as she climbed into the backseat, and she and Robb leaned out of the windows together waving and laughing to the crowd.

The car pulled away from the church, cans rattling behind the back bumper and a ‘Just Married’ sign propped up in the rear windscreen. The wedding photographer clicked away and so, Catelyn saw, did Jon. Her adopted son was crouched somewhat off to the side; after a moment he lowered his professional camera to stare after the happy couple in the departing car, looking slightly dazed. Catelyn watched him curiously. _Who knows, could Jon be the next to get married?_ A wedding like this was enough to send any young man’s head spinning, that was for certain.

Back at Winterfell, the marquee had been set up on the great lawn. Robb had wanted a simple, traditional church wedding, and the same of the reception. Catelyn had wondered if Robb’s bride might favor something a bit more unusual—Dany had travelled halfway around the world before coming back to England, after all—but she wanted the same thing as Robb. So the couple was married in the parish church, the same one where Cat and Ned had been married thirty-five years before, and Catelyn had organised the reception afterwards on the grounds of the Stark family home.

Now the guests clustered outside the marquee, circulating with champagne and other drinks before it was time to go in for dinner. Approaching the newlyweds across the wide lawn, Catelyn paused to observe them for a moment. The couple was busy receiving congratulations and well wishes from the guests, mostly old Stark family friends; Dany didn’t have much family, but she’d told Catelyn warmly that it only made her happier to become part of Robb’s. Next his bride, Robb beamed.

With an overwhelming feeling of nostalgia and happiness, Catelyn came up to her eldest son and pressed a warm kiss to his cheek. “Mum,” he said happily, and turned to hug her just as tightly as he had when he was a little boy. He nodded at his new wife, face creased with glowing love and pride. “Isn’t she beautiful? Didn’t she look wonderful back in the church?”

Catelyn smiled, marvelling that she could feel so sad and so happy all at once. “Yes, darling. She did.” She pressed another kiss to his temple, throat squeezing suddenly at the thought that her little boy was well and truly grown now. “But so did you, my love—so did you.”

 

 

**Jon**

He’d always felt more at home with a camera around his neck than any other way, so although Robb and Dany had hired a wedding photographer (albeit someone rather too conventional in his angles for Jon, who had scanned the photographer’s website and not come away impressed), Jon found that he couldn’t stop taking pictures. The natural lighting of the venue was ideal and snapping away gave him something to do. It also distracted him from the fact that in between greeting their wedding guests, Dany and Robb seemed to be perpetually gazing into each other’s eyes as if they were the only two people left in the world.

Jon lifted his Leica to his eye and focused the viewfinder on the dance floor with a very aggressive twist of the lens.

Rickon and a little girl were dancing together, holding each other in some waltz or slow-dance position that Jon remembered learning himself in a primary school gym. Despite the cheesy dancing style, Rickon’s face was absolutely lit up and the little girl looked equally enthusiastic as they swung around the dance floor.

Dany’s three bridesmaids were standing around, clutching champagne glasses and chatting. They were Dany’s childhood friends, each one lovelier than the next in their pale blue dresses and white pashmina wraps. Jon paused to watch, snorting, as Robb’s old mate Theon came up and tried to chat each girl up in turn only to get violently rebuffed each time.

Arya, wearing a bored expression, was sneaking off to sample more of the cupcakes, no doubt her second or third round in. (Jon couldn’t post that on Facebook though, or she’d be on his arse about it for ages—he’d learned from bitter experience.)

Robert Baratheon was talking to Jon’s adoptive father again, laughing and making rude gestures while Ned smiled mildly and and continued sipping his white wine. Jon stifled laughter as he lifted his camera for a quick series of snapshots—it was impossible for him to pass this up when it seemed such an accurate description of their friendship.

He pivoted on his heel and turned all the way around, spotting the bride and groom in a corner of the lawn. Dany and Robb had yet to leave one another’s sides; Dany leaned into her husband, arm linked through his as they spoke to a group of family friends. Before he could stop himself, Jon tilted the Leica into portrait position, completely cutting Robb out of frame just as Dany smiled at some comment of her husband’s. Her blue eyes crinkled with warmth, laugh lines lighting up the corners of her mouth and something twisted in Jon’s chest, hard, just to see it.

“Oi! Earth to best man! How long have you been standing there anyway?” Theon Greyjoy clapped Jon suddenly on the back, startling him just as his finger hit the shutter. With any luck, the picture would come out half-decent… but Jon wasn’t particularly positive. He hastily lowered his camera, hoping that Theon hadn’t caught sight of what he was aiming at. Theon straightened his bow tie with one hand and grinned at Jon. “You’re up next, mate.”

Jon smiled neutrally. He’d never been a fan of Theon, despite the other man’s nearly constant presence at Winterfell as Robb’s best mate growing up; the fact that Theon was a complete and utter lad had quite a bit to do with that. “Oh, yeah?” he said steadily, capping the lens of his camera and letting it rest gently against his chest. Not bothering to answer, Theon slung an arm around Jon’s neck and steered him directly toward the bridal party table on the lighted stage. In the other hand he gripped an already-opened bottle of champagne (of course Theon would have nicked an entire bottle, Jon thought with mingled admiration and scorn).

Sliding into the seat next to Jon’s, Theon topped up the empty glass sitting in front of Jon. “Here, mate,” he said with an expansive grin, and handed it to Jon with a nod. “Looks like you could use it.”

Sure enough, the DJ came on over the microphone a few glasses of champagne later to announce that it was time for speeches. Everyone retreated to the tables under the marquee, chattering away to each other with drinks in hand, and there was a warm, expectant feeling over everything, a feeling of unabashed good cheer. Having successfully drunk his nerves through, Jon raised his glass to give his best man speech. _Don’t cock it up and_ do _sound like you actually mean all of it,_ he reminded himself, giving his best brotherly smile and looking straight at Robb as he stood and cleared his throat.

“Right, so… Hullo, everyone, hullo.” Jon pasted on a smile and glanced around the room at all the Starks and family friends in attendance. Ned was seated at the table in front of the stage, smiling calmly at him. He gave Jon an encouraging nod as their eyes met, and Jon swallowed hard before looking away.

“You all know I’m really great at public speaking… so of course I was thrilled when Robb asked me to be his best man and do a speech. Couldn’t have been more pleased, really.” Jon gave a self-deprecating grimace, and was gratified by the responding laughter from the room. Perhaps this _wasn’t_ going to be as bloody awful as he’d expected. Slightly less awful than predicted. Excellent.

“I, um, don’t have that much to say, so I’ll try to keep it simple. It has been glorious watching these two wonderful people fall more and more in love. They absolutely deserve each other, and I wish them all the happiness this world has to give them. Robb… he’s not only my brother, he’s also the best bloke anyone could ask for.” Jon paused, playing the words in his head before he spoke. “So it’s perfect, really, that he’d end up falling in love with the woman who’s basically his best mate already—Daenerys Targaryen.”

Another smattering of light laughter broke out among the guests. Jon swallowed hard, disregarding what seemed to be a freshly formed lump in his throat, and went on. “Robb, Dany, I wish you the best possible happiness in married life anyone could experience. I know I haven’t said so much, but I’d like to propose a toast. To Dany and Robb, everybody.”

At the customary clink of glasses, Dany and Robb beamed at him. Turning her eyes to the room, Dany gazed around in a golden flush of utter happiness. Then, to the room’s collective _awww_ , she tremulously leaned over and kissed Robb full on the mouth.

Jon felt himself smile automatically with everyone else, but inside he felt absolutely frozen. He raised his glass to the couple again, wishing more than anything that he could slide into his chair and stop watching.

Yet as painful as it was to look, he couldn’t turn away.

 


	2. Before Christmas

#  _Before Christmas_

 

 

**Tyrion**

Tyrion unlocked the door to find his older brother standing there with a bad look on his face. All it took was one glance, and he knew something was wrong.

Jaime was leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed against his chest, staring blankly at some spot between the refrigerator and the floor. He must have just come from the university; he was wearing his professor get-up, tweed jacket, mustard-coloured vest, crimson tie, and nice trousers. _You can always count on Jaime to be wearing some nice trousers_ , Tyrion thought dryly, before his confusion set in. Later he would remember exactly how Jaime had looked that day, an image he’d be unable to erase from his mind no matter how hard he tried.

Tyrion’s older brother started at the sound of the door and looked up at Tyrion, his unfocused green eyes gaining sudden clarity. “Tyrion! I… I didn’t think you’d be home.”

He looked so… _guilty_. Guiltier than when he’d accidentally broken Tyrion’s toy airplane when they were eight and five respectively, and guiltier than the time he’d ripped the cover off of Tyrion’s favorite copy of _Great Expectations_ in primary school even though he’d claimed it was an accident.

“Ah, Jaime. Well, this is a surprise,” Tyrion said lightly. He stepped in the room and smiled, setting his briefcase on the floor. Even the air in the room felt off, like something was horribly amiss. “What’s the occasion?”

For once, Jaime was lost for a smart reply. He forced a laugh, too, strained lines appearing across his golden forehead. “Right. I—I’m not sure how to put this, Tyrion. It’s just that…”

Staring at his older brother, for one mad moment Tyrion thought that Jaime had been with Tysha, and this was how he, Tyrion, was going to find out that the girl he’d been in love with for two years had cheated on him. That she had finally decided Tyrion was too stunted and ugly to be with, and she wanted Tyrion’s tall, handsome older brother instead. _It would make sense_ , Tyrion thought, dazed, _wouldn’t it?_

But then Tysha herself emerged from the living room. She had a satchel in hand, her face was red and streaked with tears—and seeing her, Tyrion knew suddenly that the reality of whatever was happening was much, much worse.

“Tysha,” he said, stepping forward, stunned. “What’s going on?”

Tysha didn’t speak at first, only dropped her satchel on the ground and scrubbed a hand across her face. She fixed Tyrion with a tearful stare, like she was searching for the proper words to say.

“Tyrion, I—” Jaime started, his voice rough.

Tysha put up one shaking hand in mid-air and Jaime halted abruptly. He looked agonised, but Tyrion didn’t have any more glances to spare his brother. All he could see was his girlfriend, who brushed a strand of brown hair out of her face before speaking shakily, her red-rimmed eyes fixed on his. “Tyrion… I’m sorry. But I can’t do this.”

“W—what?” Tyrion went cold. His mind fell to instances in the past, women he’d been with before Tysha, trying to remember if he’d ever found himself in this exact state of lost for words. But he drew a blank. “Tysha—what are you talking about?”

“I can’t—” His girlfriend took a deep breath, looking almost younger than her twenty-four years. “I can’t stand to be treated this way. Like I’m not good enough for you.”

“What do you mean?” Tyrion had always had a quick reply and a quicker wit—you had to have some sort of defences when you barely cleared four feet tall—but Tysha had stripped all that away from him, softened him. That was the kind of stupid thing that happened when you were in love, not that Tyrion had ever believed any of that. Not until it had happened to _him_.

So now Tyrion’s quick tongue had abandoned him and he felt slow and stupid, able only to repeat himself. “Tysha, what the _hell_ are you talking about?”

Tysha lifted her head to Jaime with a hard, glittering expression. She nodded at him once, brusquely. “Why don’t you ask him?”

Tyrion whipped around and saw the beaten look on his brother’s face, and then he knew. Jaime held something in his hand, pinched loosely between the fingers. It was an envelope, Tyrion realised suddenly. _Of course._ It might have been Jaime’s words relaying the message, but it was clear that Tywin had spoken. Tyrion suddenly felt unsteady on his feet.

Tysha barrelled on, now with more anger than sadness in her voice. “Yes, why don’t you ask your brother, Tyrion? Ask him why he showed up and tried to pay me off like I’m some sort of—of cheap _gold_ _digger_?”

No. This wasn’t happening. Just this morning they had slept in, snuggling close under the comforter, and had dreamy morning sex with the sun slanting in through the windows. He’d made French toast, and they’d had breakfast in bed. They’d planned to go shopping on the weekend for an engagement ring, something they’d been planning for ages but always seemed too busy to do. Tyrion would have scoffed at those things as sickeningly clichéd had they been with anyone else—but not with Tysha. Not for him and Tysha.

And now Tyrion’s bloody father was going to ruin everything.

“Tysha, please—you know this has nothing to do with me,” Tyrion pleaded, feeling the words coming desperately even as he fought to keep his voice steady. “It’s not me, this is all my father and you _know_ that. What we have—it’s only between you and me, and that’s all that matters. That’s all we need, darling.”

Tysha shook her head, looking absolutely exhausted. There were dark circles like coffeestains under her eyes, and her mouth was trembling. _God, did I do that to her? Am I the one who made her look that tired, and old?_ “No, Tyrion. It wouldn’t be that way, and you know it.”

He closed his eyes for a brief second. “Tysha—please don’t—”

His girlfriend swooped down low suddenly, clasping his face in her hands. Her face was anguished. “Tyrion, I love you. I love you more than—than anyone.” Her voice cracked. “But I can’t do this, I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Please, Tysha!” He put his hands over hers, trying to hold her there, connected to him. “Let’s talk about this. Let’s be reasonable.”

She started to cry again, and Tyrion had never felt worse in his life. “Tyrion, I _am_ being reasonable. This is me telling you I can’t live like this.” She paused, and her face crumpled as she saw Tyrion reach out to her, his lips moving soundlessly as he tried to find words to say. “Please don’t make this harder than it is.” She screwed up her face, biting her lip, and then pulled her hands from his grasp. “Goodbye, Tyrion.”

Tysha strode briskly across the kitchen, rucksack slung across her thin shoulders, looking terribly young and vulnerable, and was gone.

Tyrion froze. For a long moment, he stood there without moving. Then he slowly raised his eyes to his big brother, who stood motionless in the middle of Tyrion’s kitchen like some discarded bit player from a Greek tragedy.

“Tyrion,” Jaime began very slowly, looking at Tyrion with the wary eyes of a kicked dog.

He realized suddenly that he was shaking, with rage or grief or something he didn’t recognize. “Out,” he said in a tiny voice, extending one hand to the door.

“Tyrion,” his big brother repeated, almost pleadingly. 

“ _Out_ ,” Tyrion said, and now he was shouting. “ _Get out_!”

 

 

**Stannis**

Drawing a deep breath through his nose, Stannis peered at the studio screen monitor, trying very hard to fight the telltale signs of an impending migraine.

On any given day, the mere sight of his older brother was enough to set Stannis grinding his teeth. The sight of Robert today, wearing a Santa suit and surrounded by fawning half-dressed models while lip-synching a bad Christmas cover of a thirty-year-old song, was actually enough to make Stannis want to stab something—for both aesthetic _and_ familial reasons.

Even Stannis could admit that in his prime, Robert had been an absolute god. His band War Hammer had gone triple platinum back in the ‘80s, dominating the airwaves with songs that quickly topped hard rock charts worldwide. The era’s influx of interest in British bands had only strengthened War Hammer’s steady climb to fame, and the band’s power ballads remained among the most popular in the world. Stannis still had to resist the urge to cover his ears whenever ‘Ready for Rebellion’ played obnoxiously from shops as he passed by, or whenever he flicked past the classic rock station on the radio.

But time, that cruel mistress, had not treated Stannis’s brother kindly. He had gotten grotesquely fat faster than you could say “Axel Rose”; middle age appeared to have socked him soundly in the jaw; and about the only thing that linked him to the shadow of his former self was the luxurious mane of black hair that had been his rock star trademark. Now, as Robert sang and gyrated, it was difficult to see even the shadow of the sex god he’d once been. Today’s Robert, Stannis thought dispassionately, could almost literally have eaten 1980s Robert for breakfast.

Stannis’s brother sang the lyrics and then stopped abruptly, causing the entire band of in-house musicians to come a stop in a clash of synthesizers and electric guitars. “Oh, fuck, _fuck_ , FUCK! Fuckity fuck in a bucket. I can’t remember the bloody fucking line.”

Alongside Stannis, Robert’s manager leaned forward and adjusted his headset. “It’s ‘Pour some _Christmas_ on me…’” he said encouragingly through the mike, blind to Stannis’s incredulous glance in his direction. Stannis found it difficult to believe that anyone would choose to do this for a paying job; loss of dignity aside, the man must be getting handsome royalties and then some.

“Ah, _right_ , right,” Robert sighed, rolling his eyes, then paused when he caught sight of the model nearest him. “Hell- _o_ ,” he said, leering slightly, and patted her bottom. The model, a leggy brunette, flashed him a brilliantly false smile and surreptitiously moved a few steps away. Stannis winced and drew back from the paned glass that separated him from the soundstage.

“Stannis,” said a familiar Scottish brogue at his elbow. Stannis turned his head slightly. His second-in-command was standing there with narrowed eyes, arms crossed across his chest. Davos Seaworth didn’t look amused by the holiday spectacle before them, but at least he didn’t look like he wanted to put his fist through the drywall of the recording studio if given the chance. No, that was Stannis’s department. “You all right there?”

Stannis released a short breath through flared nostrils. “This _song_ ,” he said after a moment, “is even worse than the original.”

Davos paused before speaking with his usual candour. Stannis had always disliked the business-world propensity to slap a shiny glaze of optimism on everything—he wanted the unvarnished truth, and Davos was one of the few people he’d found who consistently gave it to him. That was just one of the reasons why Davos was Stannis’s second-in-command.

“Well, I’m not sayin’ you’re wrong,” Davos conceded at last. He raised a wry eyebrow in Stannis’s direction. “But Robert had loads of fans back in the day, and he still has ‘em. People go crazy for anything nostalgia at Christmastime. Nostalgia sells. You know that.”

It was true. Stannis personally might rather die in silence than listen to his brother’s song, but if there was anything he’d learned in his decade-long tenure as CEO of Dragonstone Media Group, it was that he rarely understood what was popular with the masses. That was one responsibility he left to his exceedingly well-paid analysts and advisory panels.

Stannis had no qualms admitting he didn’t understand the vagaries of the market, because there was very little that he _didn’t_ understand about the business world. After his father’s death in the 1980s, Stannis had led Dragonstone Media Group to dizzying new heights of success, and it was now difficult to think of a larger entertainment and media conglomerate in the United Kingdom. Stannis had been scarcely out of law school when he’d inherited the company. Though he disliked the corporate world and preferred the relative straightforwardness of law, it had been his duty to carry on the legacy of the Baratheon name.

Some thirty years on, Stannis found it rather ironic that he’d ended up tending the careers of his two brothers when he spoke to those brothers in person approximately three times per year. Dragonstone Media Group was a family company in name only—none of the remaining Baratheons were close. Apart from Stannis, there was Robert and his rock star excesses, though he’d obviously fallen from his former glory; their youngest brother, Renly, had recently been made Prime Minister of Britain, thanks in no small part to his continual presence on all of Dragonstone Media Group’s many outlets. Renly’s latest poll results had come in overwhelmingly positive, Stannis remembered suddenly. Perhaps he ought to send that over to 10 Downing in a memo.

“You don’t have to watch this, you know,” Davos reminded him gently. As always when he gave Stannis advice, whether personal or professional, his tone was somewhat blunted. Stannis straightened.

“I like to know what our company is bankrolling,” he said in a stiff voice. Other men might have been put off by his tone, but Davos knew that was just how Stannis communicated. “And I don’t want to be blindsided by this… travesty of a video when it’s released. Per the media rollout strategy briefing, it’s going to be everywhere, so consider yourself warned in advance.” He paused. “I would invest in some earplugs.”

“Now then,” said Davos, after a moment. He turned and looked at Stannis in a searching sort of way, his blue eyes cool. It took a lot to ruffle that scowling calm, Stannis knew. “You sound like you could use a cuppa.”

“I really don’t think so,” Stannis said waspishly, inwardly irritated that Davos had caught him out in a moment of pique. He hated realizing his infrequent moments of temper; it always made him feel like a child. Stannis glanced back at the monitor, where behind the glass of the recording studio Robert stood with a smile bigger than Father Christmas himself. The models raised their arms over their heads and sashayed around him, looking as if they were doing some sort of May Day ritual with Robert serving as the Maypole. Christ, were they really paying someone to direct this?

Davos put one hand on Stannis’ shoulder and Stannis turned to look at him, startled. “Think you could, mate. They don’t need you here. Don’t you think there are better ways y’could be spending your time?”

The abrupt softness and understanding in Davos’ tone made Stannis wince and take a short step away. It was difficult to hear Davos feeling sorry for him, and both men knew that Davos had very good reason to do so. After all, the Scottish man knew exactly why Stannis was so buried in his work at this particular moment, even more so than usual.

For a moment Stannis debated the pile of work that still overwhelmed his daily agenda, but Davos was right. It had been a long day of work, and he was tired. He would rather enjoy a drink with Davos than stay here, no matter how masochistic he might be feeling. “All right,” he said, releasing his breath at last, with a mingled feeling of release and defeat. “Let’s have a drink, then.”

Davos smiled, his beard spreading across his handsome rugged face. Stannis had always observed that he looked rather like Sean Connery when he smiled. “Right. The usual place?”

It was rather incredible that Stannis, who’d always had trouble making connections with other people and didn’t quite understand the concept of friends, had somewhere along the line developed the tradition of going for a pint after work with another person. They even had a “usual” place to go—entirely Davos’ doing, of course. But Stannis had to admit that he truly appreciated it. He nodded.

Davos smiled again, looking genuinely pleased. “Brilliant. Drinks are on me.”

 

 

**Jaime**

_Beowulf_. Jaime _loved_ Beowulf. Not only was it one of the most important works in Anglo-Saxon literature, it was also an elaborate but simple tale of textbook heroism that was easy to critique and even easier to explicate.  It made the perfect topic for this lecture, the last of his class’s before the Christmas holiday.

“Now, you see, one of the dominant themes in Beowulf is resurrection via the mother figure.” Turning to look at the ten-foot-high screen, Jaime illuminated part of the projected image with a laser pointer. “Here you see Grendel emerging from her watery home. She intends to speak to Beowulf, guiding him on his quest.”

 _God_ , Jaime loved the hero epic. It was his specialty. This was just the starter course of his three-part series, and he knew he would be seeing nearly all of these students’ faces again. His classes never lacked for enrolment, largely owing to the stellar reviews that never failed to grace the university’s online student forums (where his series rated the must-take introductory module of the entire classics department, no doubt due to his savvy mix of pop culture references and —Jaime’s opinion—relatably droll teaching style). That, and the fact that Jaime fought tooth and nail for the time slots he offered. He’d graduated from this university, after all, and knew that students wouldn’t care to study the hero epic on the weekends or early in the morning. Nothing said unheroic like drooling into one’s lecture notes at 8 AM on a weekday.

“The dominant themes in this epic also include paternal loss and confusion of the paternal identity. This is a thread we can follow directly from Beowulf into later epics such as King Arthur…”

His beautiful train of thought was interrupted by the sound of a door opening at the side of the stage. With a surge of irritation, Jaime turned from his class to see a familiar head poke through the lecturer entrance. Even in flats, the intruder towered so tall that her head of cropped blonde hair nearly grazed the top of the door.

“Lannister,” said the person, and it was unmistakably _her_. Of course. Who else in the Queenscrown College classics department possessed that winning mix of Olympian-like height and utter charmlessness? Who else in the _world_ , for that matter? “Do you have the vintage copy of the _Serwyn Cycles_ , edited by Dontos Hollard? Reference said you were the last one who reserved it, but it’s overdue.”

Jaime could hear his class stirring behind him. “Hi, Miss Tarth!” came a girl’s voice, and the greeting was echoed by a few others. Slipping his laser pointer into his breast pocket, Jaime felt irritation stirring in his chest. This was _his_ class and she had no right to come in and steal all his thunder— in the middle of _Beowulf_ , no less. He cleared his throat, leaning on the podium with one elbow as he turned to look at her.

“No, Tarth,” he said, with an oversize smile. “But I’m certain you might be able to locate it somewhere in the pile of books on your own desk. Considering the size of that, I’m surprised you even found your way out of the library. There is a little more to life than books, you know.”

That earned a nervous ripple of laughter from his roomful of students, but Tarth hardly looked fazed. She raised one nearly invisible blonde eyebrow. “Oh, dear. Given that this is academia, that’s one primary school insult I’ve heard before.”

She was right, that particular jab _was_ a little weak. Jaime opened his mouth to continue, but Tarth cut him off with a gleam in her blue eyes.

“Perhaps you could consider sourcing some books yourself one of these days, Mr Lannister. You might be shocked— _shocked_ —to find out that Wikipedia and a few secondary-source documents do not a stellar research paper make.” She raised her giant head to look at his class, who gazed raptly back at the two of them, and shrugged. “I’m sure that in terms of class entertainment value, though, you’re sorted.”

Tarth advanced further into the lecture hall, all four bloody meters of her or however tall she was, and gazed up at his Beowulf slide with both hands on her hips. “Ah, yes. Word on the street is that your Powerpoint presentations are not to be missed, Lannister. As usual, you don’t disappoint.”

A ripple of hushed giggles spread through the room, and Jaime spotted two girls exchange actual open-mouthed looks of delighted shock. Settling back onto the podium, Jaime allowed himself a small smile even as his jaw tensed with irritation. The woman was sharp, he had to give her that. Little did she know, however, that as on-point as her argument was (not that there was _anything_ wrong with engaging visuals), Jaime knew her pet peeves as well as he knew his way around a reverse-image Google search.

“Well, _wench_ ,” he began, and was pleased to see her face colour with irritation and embarrassment. Medieval insults tended to have that effect on a classicist. “I’m afraid I simply can’t help you. Now that you’ve finished interrupting my lecture, however, are there any other questions you’d like to ask? Perhaps you need some other source for that paper you’ve been so annoyingly verbal about working on?”

The colour in Tarth’s face flared higher, but she seemed determined not to go easily. “Thanks, Lannister, but I’m afraid your assistance would be more hindrance than help,” she retorted.

Jaime actually rolled his eyes at that. Pathetic. If that was all she could come up with, then this conversation was close to over. “Oh, more’s the pity. I’ll be sure to cry about that crushing loss before I go to bed tonight. If that’s all…?” he prompted.

“Right. That’s all,” she said crisply, jaw set in irritation, before withdrawing her huge head and closing the door.

Jaime released an exhale of irritation and slumped back onto his podium. _Christ, that woman!_ She was stubborn, and much more unyielding than any woman should be. Why she had to interrupt him in the middle of his favourite lecture of the semester he didn’t know.

She was constantly on his case in department meetings: always going on and on about his lax grading (“grade curving,” as she blatantly called it), how as a senior lecturer he ought to be taking on more than his current load of teaching modules, and how his scope of expertise was too narrow. It was all absurd, of course. There were hundreds of hero epics written in the past hundred years alone with exceptional critical essence that she (despite her admittedly qualifiable credentials) simply did not appreciate.

Everyone else bloody loved her, though, and Jaime simply couldn’t fathom _why_. Sometimes as she lumbered down the corridor, standing a good foot or clear of everyone else even in those hideous flat shoes she was prone to wearing, Jaime would linger in the door to his office and watch her go, pondering. What could it be? Why did her popularity among students and faculty alike rival his own? Not that it _bothered_ him of course, but… Jaime was an academic. He had an enquiring mind, and it wanted to know these things. He was almost fond of disliking her, at this point.

Anyhow, all distractions aside, Jaime had a seminar to teach and a term to finish up. He turned back to the lecture hall. “My apologies. Are there any questions?” he said, smiling calmly now at his rows of students. A question or two would give him time to compose himself and regain face before launching into his direct comparison of Beowulf to the Luke Skywalker/Darth Vader paternity discovery.

In the third row from the front, Margaery Tyrell raised her hand with a face gleaming in delight. “Yes, Margaery?” he said, nodding at her with a pleased feeling. Although she didn’t look it at first glance, the girl was as clever as she was pretty, reminding Jaime of his own days as a university student. _Good_ , he thought, perhaps he would have some quality questions today.

“Mr Lannister,” the Tyrell girl said, trying but failing to stop herself from breaking into an easy smirk, “Mr Lannister… do you fancy Miss Tarth?”

Next to Margaery Tyrell, Catelyn’s Stark daughter let out a shocked sound and covered her mouth, and nearly every girl in the room burst into giggles. Jaime felt the smile drop off his face. Well, apparently decent questions were too much to hope for, then.

He fixed his tie and smiled back at Miss I-ask-bloody-stupid-questions, who was now looking highly satisfied, colour high in her cheeks from all the attention her question had gotten. _Silly girl._

Jaime smiled his most devastatingly handsome, charming smile and said simply, “I wouldn’t dream of it.” And with that he flicked on his laser pointer, directed it at the screen and continued his lecture, putting Brienne Tarth and all her irritating, student-baiting interruptions firmly out of his mind.

Some thirty minutes later he finished up his lecture, touching on all his favourite points before dismissing the class with a golden feeling of satisfaction. “All right, if that’s all, I wish you all a very Merry Christmas, and a safe and eventful holiday!”

Flicking off the overhead display and leaning against the podium, Jaime smiled and nodded as his students filed out, many of them coming up to wish him a Happy Christmas. He was used to this type of adulation, and wouldn’t be surprised to find a handful of gifts at his desk before the day was over. Being a good university lecturer was sort of like being a rock star, except you had to be intelligent. God knew that rock stars weren’t intelligent—just look at that oaf Cersei had married.

That stupid song of Robert’s had been playing on the radio every time Jaime turned it on the past few days. But that wasn’t the key thing that was worrying him now; Jaime was currently troubled by something that hit a lot closer to home. He pulled his mobile from his pocket and quickly scrolled through the messages. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

_Goddamnit, Tyrion, if you would just answer your bloody phone!_

Jaime hadn’t heard from his little brother in two weeks, not since he’d been forced into a devil’s errand, running interference between their father and Tyrion’s girlfriend. No, not girlfriend—fiancée. Jaime hadn’t known that part. After the fact, it only made him feel worse about the relationship he had effectively helped to destroy.

Jaime was seriously worried. He had no idea where Tyrion might be. He didn’t know any of Tyrion’s friends well enough to have their numbers; Cersei and Tyrion haven’t spoken in years, so she couldn’t be of any help. He sent another text, tried calling one more time, but there was nothing. Frustrated, Jaime flicked open his email and began to type.

He was going to reach his brother if it was the last thing he did.

 

 

**Brienne**

She turned left after stopping into Jaime Lannister’s lecture and headed down the hall in a huff. That man, she swore, would be the death of her. So arrogant, so cocky, so full of himself… he thought that just because he was more handsome than any man had a right to be that he could be just as proud!

Brienne paused before the department head’s office and took a breath to regain her composure. She smoothed back her hair and adjusted her charcoal grey work blouse. Then, squaring her shoulders and raising herself to her full height, she stepped inside.

Catelyn Stark was on her desk phone. She glanced up and smiled as Brienne came in, holding up one finger for Brienne to wait; feeling a bit awkward, Brienne shuffled her feet and took a look around the office where she’d spent a decent part of her time after joining the faculty ten months ago. Gilt-framed diplomas, photos, and works of art decorated the walls, and the bookshelves were lined with dusty first editions that Brienne was itching to leaf through. The whole place was welcoming, yet intimidating and supremely academic—quite like Catelyn herself.

“Right. Look, can I ring you back, darling?” Catelyn said into the phone. “Work calls. Yes, I love you too.” She hung up and folded her hands on her desk. “How can I help you, Brienne?”

“I’m sorry,” Brienne said, feeling a little awkward. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Oh, no,” Catelyn said, folding her hands on her desk. The delicate diamond on her wedding ring sparkled in the light. “You weren’t interrupting anything; I was just ringing my husband. What’s on your mind?”

“Well. I just asked Jaime Lannister if he has _The Serwyn Cycles_ and he said that he doesn’t.” Brienne heaved a frustrated sigh. “At least, I think that’s what he said. It’s hard to tell when his remarks are usually so juvenile and unprofessional.” She paused, immediately regretting voicing the complaint. She sounded like a little girl whinging because someone had pulled her hair on the playground, for heaven’s sake. “Forgive me for saying so, Dr Stark.”

Catelyn regarded her evenly, tapping a few well-manicured fingers on her heavy oak desk. “Well, that is a shame. But I’m certain we can locate that book soon enough, certainly after the holiday.”

Brienne winced. “I don’t really want to wait that long before starting.”

Catelyn shook her head, looking a bit incredulous. This was a conversation they’d had several times before. “Oh come now, Brienne, you don’t really mean to work extensively over break? I know you’re aiming to impress everyone with your tremendous research output, but believe me— the powers that be are quite impressed with your contributions to our department. Besides, it’s Christmas!”

Brienne shrugged, trying not to sound too insistent. “I’m only going to visit my father, so I may as well bring some work with me.” She paused. “The submission of the abstract is due soon, and I want to have plenty of time for revision.”

Catelyn considered this for a moment, pursing her lips. “All right. I’ll see if we can’t obtain a copy of that book through interlibrary loan.”

Which _still_ wouldn’t be enough time for Brienne, as the libraries would be closing down in a few days’ time, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself to accept things as they were. She would just have to work around it. Rather unusually for academia, Catelyn had welcomed Brienne to the classics department with open arms, and as a new lecturer who had just obtained her masters’, Brienne was exceedingly grateful for all of Catelyn’s advising. She didn’t want to push too hard on something that ultimately mattered little. “Right, thank you,” she said, forcing a relaxed smile.

Catelyn laced her fingers together and leaned forward on the desk, her expression shifting until she looked almost conspiratorial. “Now, Brienne… you _really_ should come to our New Year’s party. Think of it as a short break from the work you’re planning to do.”

Catelyn had been talking about this party ever since December had rolled around. Brienne was new to the faculty, but apparently the New Year’s party was an annual tradition that Catelyn’s family had held at her husband’s ancestral home ever since they married. The entire department was invited every year.

“I’ll think about it,” Brienne said, attempting a weak smile. She really wasn’t a party person—if anything, she was the complete opposite. Small talk gave her headaches, and so did strangers. That was the unfortunate effect of having overwhelmingly negative social experiences growing up. “Plenty of time to think, you know.”

Catelyn gave her a small smile. “You’re right, I suppose. Well. Let me know of your plans as soon as you’re sure of them, Brienne.”

“Of course, Dr Stark,” Brienne said. “Have a lovely afternoon.” Catelyn returned the farewell with slightly solicitous concern evident in her eyes—but Catelyn always looked at her like that, so it was easy for Brienne to not dwell much on it as she left. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d turned down such an invitation, after all… and Brienne’s advisor probably wouldn’t remember much of their conversation anyhow, what with work and New Year’s plans to preoccupy her. No harm done, then, if Brienne was conveniently unable to attend that New Year’s party.

Brienne turned left and strode down the hallway for her own office. Just as she had rounded the corner, however, she froze when she heard two girls’ voices running on at breathless high speed.

“—absolutely cannot believe you said that to Prince Charming!” said one, as Brienne struggled to place the voice.

“What? Someone had to say it!” There was a burst of sharp giggles.

“All right, but not the way that you said it! I mean—”

“Oh Sansa, _please_. It’s so obvious! They’re always fighting, not caring if anyone else is bothered to hear.”

 _They can’t mean…_ Realization dawned on Brienne with the weight of a thousand bricks, and she lunged around the corner to avoid being seen. The girls’ voices echoed and grew slightly fainter. There was a sound of a door. Mentally estimating, Brienne guessed that they’d gone into the washroom just before the turn.

Sansa meant Catelyn’s daughter, and if Brienne had to guess, she was accompanied by her friend Margaery Tyrell. The two girls had one of Brienne’s lectures and always sat together in the front row.

“It’s so sweet,” Sansa gushed now, her voice echoing out into the hallway. “Like Beatrice and Benedick, you know? Or Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth! Everyone knows that if you fight like that it means that you’re secretly in love.”

“Or it could mean that one of you’s just a giant knob,” the other one snorted, and the decisive lilt convinced Brienne that it was Margaery. Brienne had heard that voice asking questions or giving opinions stated resolutely enough to be fact in her seminars often enough.

“Oh, come off it, Marg. You know that Miss Tarth is, like, the nicest lecturer ever. And Prince Charming may have been a bit of a lad when he was younger, but he’s genuinely nice now. He gave Alys an extension on her paper.”

There was a murmuring noise of assent, accompanied by the sound of a running faucet. And then: “I think they would be cute together,” said Margaery’s voice.

“I know, they’d have cute professor babies,” Sansa agreed without a moment’s hesitation.

“God, he’s _beyond_ dreamy. Did you _see_ what he was wearing today?”

“I know… I love those trousers of his. And with that light blue tie? When he wished us Happy Christmas I wanted to just stand up and say, ‘No—thank _you_ , Mr Lannister, for giving _us_ a very Happy Christmas!’”

There was a fit of giggles, and the door to the bathroom opened. _Oh, bollocks_. Brienne hastily ducked into the nearest classroom, watching through the slightly ajar door. She was right. It _was_ Sansa Stark and Margaery Tyrell, and the two were looking quite pleased with themselves.

“Come on,” Sansa said, pulling at her friend’s sleeve with a sweet giggle as they passed, “or we’ll be late for the Secret Santa reveal.” The two of them hurried off.

Brienne stood there in the semi-darkness of the empty classroom, taken aback and slightly appalled. Students really did have the most overactive imaginations. Her and… Jaime Lannister? Beatrice and Benedick? _Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy?_ That was going too far. _That_ was going too far.

Whatever kinds of ideas those girls were getting about her and Jaime Lannister together, they were completely off base and entirely overblown. She would never stoop so low.

Also, “Prince Charming”? Was that really what students called him? _Prince Charming?_  

_Really?_

 

 

**Renly**

The door of the car opened, and the sunlight of the street flooded him. He blinked.

“Welcome, Mr Prime Minister,” said a calm voice. An arm was extended, cutting through the light and the noise; accepting it, Renly stepped out of the car and turned around to survey the modest roundabout of one of the most famous residences in the world. _Well_ , he thought, _this is it._ _Here I am._

He turned to wave at the phalanx of photographers that flooded the street. The din and clamour was tremendous, flashbulbs popping wherever he looked, but Renly was used to it. They were shouting his name, yelling questions about the last of the campaign efforts, the recent election, trying to get a rise out of him. “Thank you!” he called, smiling genuinely. “I’m very happy to be here.”

Putting his shoulders back, he gave the photographers, and by extension the world, one last wave. Then Renly turned away and, drawing a great deep breath, faced the house. This was his home now, this was his life, and he wanted to get started straight away. After all, there was plenty to be done.

Cortnay Penrose, looking dapper and considerably more well rested than he had during election season, stood by the door. “Welcome home, sir,” he said, taking Renly by the elbow, and as if by magic the famous black door opened before them. Renly smiled warmly at Cortnay before stepping over the mantel of 10 Downing Street, into the home that would be his for the next five years. It was quite an extraordinary feeling.

Once inside with the door closed behind him, he let out a deep breath, one that he hadn’t been aware of holding. “Cortnay, mate, it’s good to see you again,” he said, embracing the middle-aged man warmly.

“Likewise, sir,” responded his Chief Head of Staff, smiling. “Not for the first time, congratulations.”

“Thank you.” Renly smoothed his tie, and then lifted his head. He’d been here before, of course, but the Prime Minister’s residence was simultaneously warm and awe-inspiring, and it was quite a different thing to be here as a reverent guest and as the sole _occupant_. Now what seemed to be the entire contents of the house’s staff lined the entryway and the doors leading into the heart of the residence. He straightened up, reminding himself that his every move was, essentially, an important performance. Everything mattered.

Cortnay escorted him down the rows of people, introducing him to everyone with brisk but warm professionalism. First were the household staffs, beginning with Emma, the housekeeper, and Joy, the butler. Renly greeted them each with a firm handshake and a sincere smile.

Then it was on to the more political members of his household. Renly knew all of his government ministers; after all, he’d selected them. But the coordinating staffs of his home were strangers to him, having been picked by Cortnay or inherited from the previous Prime Minister. As he met each new appointment Renly smiled genuinely, noting all the little details that would help him with his near-legendary skill for remembering people’s names, faces, and stories. But it was all rather a blur until, suddenly, after being introduced to Susan, deputy chief of staff, Renly found himself standing in front of the most beautiful man he’d ever seen.

“And this is Loras,” Cortnay said. “Our other deputy chief of staff. He’s also new.”

Renly stopped short, his warm and professional greeting withering on his tongue. The man, who couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, looked like an actual Botticelli angel. He smiled brightly, staring at Renly with bold brown eyes. “Delighted to meet you, sir,” he said, extending his hand to grip Renly’s in a firm shake.

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Renly said, smiling, trying not to stare too long. _Loras_ … that wasn’t a very common name. He swept his eyes over Loras, picking up details (neat suit, pale blue tie, ridiculously handsome) to help him remember the name. Somehow, though—and it was only a hunch—Renly didn’t think he would be forgetting this particular staffer anytime soon.

“I must say, you’re even better-looking in person than you are in the pictures,” Loras added, releasing Renly’s hand. His words came out a little too quickly, and suddenly Renly could tell that he was nervous. The young man seemed to be trying for a sort of worldly disdain, or arrogance, but it came out endearing that he couldn’t quite manage it. Perhaps he’d spoken without thinking. “They, ah, really don’t do you justice.”

 _Is that so?_ Renly kept his smile good-natured, even as the spark of interest in his chest flared higher. “Oh, you’re too kind.” His PC politician’s tone made it sound as if Loras had just complimented him on 10 Downing Street’s curtains—but it wasn’t as if Renly could afford to acknowledge what he thought he heard in the younger man’s voice, and saw written all over Loras’s face.

At the neutrality of Renly’s tone, Loras—and he really did look terribly young—suddenly flushed pink, looking exactly like someone whose words had just caught up to him. _So perhaps he really_ didn’t _mean to say that?_ “I mean, you look very handsome in the pictures as well, sir. I didn’t mean to, you know, imply otherwise.” Loras bit his lip apologetically, folding his hands over the waist of his neat suit jacket. “I apologise, sir.”

He had to laugh. “Really, don’t worry about it. Please.”

“If you say so,” Loras replied, straightening in a very British way. He was clearly trying to keep a stiff upper lip, but the delicious blush that still coloured his face rather ruined the effect.

Renly nodded at him one more time in with understanding ease. Years on the political circuit had given him acting skills so good he would have felt at home on the West End—Loras, on the other hand, clearly had yet to learn those skills. “Right. Pleased to meet you, Loras.” He smiled neutrally, mentally chastising himself for thinking the inappropriate things he was thinking, and followed Cortnay down the corridor into the next room.

As he went, Renly turned for a quick look back over his shoulder. Loras looked mortified; Susan was laying a comforting hand on his shoulder and saying something to him. _Oh, dear. Oh dear, indeed._

After, Renly went straight into his new study and shut the door. He spared one glance for his surroundings—they were lovely, but he’d have five years to get intimately acquainted with every detail—and then he leaned against the doorframe and cupped his head in one hand.

Bloody fantastic _._ One of his staff members just happened to be young, gorgeous, and totally off-limits.

“God, that is _so_ inconvenient,” he said out loud to the empty study.

 

 

**Sansa**

Sansa and Margaery rushed across the quad and several blocks off campus. They ran across the pavements, giggling and narrowly avoiding the students trundling by in the opposite direction, who looked by turn ecstatic and grim for the last lectures of fall term. Reaching their university housing building, they dashed up three flights of stairs and burst, laughing breathlessly, into their flat. “We’re here!” Margaery announced to the room at large, panting and grinning. She lifted her arms triumphantly. “We’re not late!”

Everyone from both their flat and the boys’ flat across the way turned to look at them, amused. Their living room, usually decorated with garlands of paper flowers and various band and film posters, was now dressed in fairy lights, silk poinsettias, and dozens of paper snowflakes to match the light dusting of snow outside. Christmas music oozed from the speakers set up on the end table, where Harry Harrdyng now sat precariously for lack of extra seating in the crowded room, long legs nearly doubled up in his lap.

Their flatmate Myranda was standing importantly in front of the large, real Christmas tree that dominated the room. Being on student government, Myranda could always be counted on to organise things for the flat (probably due to wanting to know everyone’s business at all times, as Margaery had slyly noted more than once). Everyone liked her though, and she and Edric from the boys’ flat had run their Secret Santa exchange since the middle of November with more efficiency than a pair of government ministers.

Squeezing between people seated on the floor and in what looked to be all the chairs in the entire flat, Sansa managed to make space to sit down at Jeyne’s feet. “Shove over,” Margaery murmured comfortably, dropping down next to her and slinging her schoolbag onto the ground. She was still smiling, panting a little, and Sansa noticed that even the tip of her nose was pink. Noticing Sansa looking, Margaery glanced at her and grinned broadly. Sansa smiled back fondly.

Myranda cleared her throat. “All right,” she said brightly, arranging the cards she held in her hand. “Now that everyone’s here, we can begin.” Everyone looked around, excited. “I know that everyone’s had a very fun time with Secret Santa, and I’m _sure_ that everyone is dying to find out who’s been leaving them gifts these past five weeks!” Myranda paused, and then burst into a wide, toothy smile. “ _I_ certainly am!”

Margaery cut her eyes sideways at Sansa, Tyene, and Jeyne, and all four started sniggering behind their hands. They loved Myranda, but she was doing single-honour in broadcast journalism with hopes of becoming a television reporter… and sometimes it _really_ showed.

Myranda took a breath. “Since I organised Secret Santa, I’ll go first.” She smiled another BBC-ready smile, folding her hands over her waist as if she was about to reveal the world’s greatest secret. “ _This_ person is very loved by both our flats. He will always help you with your homework or give you advice when you’re feeling down. And he’s very talented… in more ways than one!” Myranda paused for a long moment, drinking in everyone’s attention before she burst out, “It was a pleasure being Secret Santa for… Podrick!”

Podrick Payne stood up, looking rather like an elf in a Christmas advert in his scarlet jumper printed with white reindeer. “Well now I know who left me eight boxes of condoms!” He was blushing but smiling broadly. “Thanks alot, Randa.”

Myranda beamed. “Well, I’m happy you liked them… and hopefully you can put them to good use,” she added with a wink, long lashes fluttering. Margaery choked back a laugh, shifting in her seat, and elbowed Sansa hard in the ribs.

Pod shuffled his feet, moving to stand in front of the Christmas tree. The tips of his ears were still pink. “Right, I can’t exactly say I’m surprised that Randa was my Secret Santa. That last gift kind of gave it away.” He cut her a mock-annoyed look and Myranda did a little bow as she seated herself on the floor. “Well, onward anyway. This person—my Secret Santa—has a lot of skill at…”

Only half-listening, Sansa chewed her lip as she contemplated her own Secret Santa. Her stomach fluttered with butterflies as she watched Pod give his speech, stuttering a tiny bit and blushing (which only made him look cuter; Pod might be a nerd, but half the corridor was keen on him for exactly that reason—not to mention his legendary prowess in bed). Sansa darted a careful look at Margaery, who sat watching Podrick with an amused smile just like everyone else.

She drew a deep breath, trying not to physically betray her nerves. It had been absolute _hell_ trying to keep this secret from Margaery, who was better at seeing through Sansa than anyone else. For a month and a half Sansa had surreptitiously bought presents, wrapped gifts, and composed perfect notes—all while fending off her best friend’s increasingly eager questions about the identity of her Secret Santa. She practically felt like James Bond, at this point. But it was all about to pay off with today’s big reveal: Sansa was almost certain Margaery had no idea that Sansa was her Secret Santa. _Almost_ certain.

“So it’s been a pleasure to be Secret Santa to… Jeyne!” Pod finished. Behind Sansa, Jeyne stood up, blushing and exclaiming, “Pod, I had no idea…”

“My mum helped me pick out the necklace,” Pod explained, smiling. Jeyne made a sound of delight and put a hand to the delicate charm now hanging about her neck. “Thanks, Pod. It’s beautiful,” she said, and stepped forward to give Pod a giant hug and kiss on the cheek. Pod blushed violently red, and when Jeyne drew back, she had a very happy smile on her face. “ _Aww_ ,” went the room, and both Pod and Jeyne blushed further.

After that, things went relatively quickly. Sansa’d had her guesses about the identities of the various Secret Santas. Gift days, which had always fallen on Thursday, were days of mass theorizing in which everyone showed off their newest presents and schemed intensely about who could have left them. Sansa was right in some guesses but in others totally surprised, and the reveals went along fairly quickly, all things told.

After several speeches had been given, Sansa began shifting in her seat, frowning just slightly. Things were really getting down to the wire, now—by her calculation there were only three or four people left who hadn’t had their Santas named, including her and Margaery. _I wish whoever was mine would just hurry up and tell me…_ _I want to see the look on Margaery’s face when she sees that I was hers!_

Edric had Alys, Alys had Wylla, and Wylla turned out to have Mya, who stood up to give her speech with a naughty smile. Sansa focused on Mya with concentration—she was practically certain that Mya was her Secret Santa. All right, Mya wouldn’t have been Sansa’s _first_ guess, given the kinds of presents that she’d gotten… but with the remaining possibilities it was all that made sense.

Then Mya finished, “And I was very pleased to be Secret Santa for… Myranda!”

Sansa’s mouth fell open. But—that meant… She shot a quick look around the circle of people sprawled across chairs and sofas. The only people who hadn’t had their Secret Santa revealed were _her_ , Sansa, and—

Margaery slowly turned to look at her, a look of realisation dawning on her face. “Wait, so that means that—” she began, staring at Sansa with a slightly stunned expression.

“ _You’re_ my Secret Santa!” finished Sansa.

“And I’m yours!” Margaery said, her mouth beginning to twist up into one of her amused little moues.

They stared at each other for a solid ten seconds, everything clicking into place, before their faces broke into identical grins. Then the two of them burst out laughing at the same time. “But you said that—”

“So that means that time when we went shopping in Portobello Road and you asked my advice, you were really just—”

“Oh, my God, I can’t believe you!”

“You’re even _better_ at lying than I thought,” Sansa accused, laughing.

“Speech! Speech!” Mya wolf-whistled through cupped hands, and beside her Myranda grinned, straightening up importantly. “That’s right, girls! You two aren’t exempt—you both still have to give speeches.”

“But it’s not the same if we already know who—” Sansa began to protest, but Myranda shook her head sternly and pointed to the centre of the room. “Rules are rules, Stark!”

What Myranda wanted, Myranda got. Slowly, Sansa got up and crossed to stand in front of the Christmas tree, feeling all eyes locked on her; Marg, still laughing, shrugged at her in mock defeat. Before Sansa could even begin, she stopped short at the total hush that fell over the room. Apparently everyone was really eager to hear what she had to say about her best friend. _Really, guys?_ Sansa reflexively brought both hands to her cheeks, and could feel that she was already furiously blushing.

“I can honestly smell the suspense and you lot aren’t helping,” she mumbled, and the room burst into laughter, a few of the girls (Margaery included) starting to giggle and exclaim rather loudly about how cute she was being.

Sansa lowered her hands and took a deep breath. “Um… well, this person is my best friend.” She took another breath and glanced at the friend in question. Margaery, knees drawn up to her chest, was watching Sansa with what looked like warm anticipation. When Sansa looked at her she widened her eyes in mock shock, making them bug out a little. Apparently Margaery was just as surprised by this turn of events as Sansa had been; feeling better already, Sansa let out a nervous breath and went on.

“She’s been there for me through good times and bad, and I really appreciate everything she’s done for me. Marg honestly didn’t have to look out for me when I kept getting lost on the first day of first year… and she didn’t have to befriend me either. The fact that she did all that and more means _so_ much.” This time it took Sansa a second to meet Margaery’s eyes, but when she did, the smile that came to her was easier than her whole speech. “You’re the best,” she said softly.

Half the common room appeared to be trying to hide their smiles, and the others were just outright grinning. “Aww, come here,” Margaery said dramatically, beaming, rising to her feet and extending her arms. With a rush of relief Sansa crossed the room and accepted her best friend’s hug, wrapping Margaery in her arms tightly and tucking her head into Margaery’s shoulder. “I love every present you got me,” she said, voice muffled in the fabric of Marg’s blazer. “Thank you so much.”

Someone whistled (it sounded suspiciously like Myranda), and there were a few good-natured catcalls. Sansa clicked her tongue, drawing back to pin whoever it had been with a stare. _God,_ their friends were ridiculous. “Thank you,” she repeated seriously, turning back to Margaery. “Really. Everything was wonderful.”

Margaery stared back at her, arms locked around Sansa’s neck. “Likewise, darling.” Then she burst into an irrepressible grin. “But I have to say, that book of poetry nearly gave it all away. Only you, Sansa Stark. Only you.”

Sansa burst out giggling and covered her mouth with her hand. “How did you—?”

Myranda cleared her throat. “Sorry to interrupt the love fest, girls, but Margaery needs to say her speech too.”

Grinning from ear to ear, Marg gently pulled away from Sansa’s hug and walked to the middle of the room, the very picture of easy confidence. Of _course_ she was going to make a big deal out of this, Sansa thought with almost impossible fondness; Margaery was never one to pass up an audience. But Sansa noticed a telling sign when Margaery pushed her hair back with her right hand. A few months ago when Marg was about to give an important presentation for her honour, she’d told Sansa that it was something she only did that when nervous and excited. _Why would she be nervous, though?_

“I’m about to tell you two things even Sansa doesn’t know about,” Margaery began theatrically, looking amused at the amount of people who physically leaned in to listen. “Firstly, when I found out that Sansa Stark was in my hall in our fresher year, I felt ridiculously intimidated.”

 _Me? Intimidate her?_ Sansa made a face in embarrassment. _She’s got to be joking_.

“Guys, let’s be realistic,” Margaery said easily, gesturing to the whole room. “Sansa Stark has a ridiculously hot name.”

The room burst into laughter once again, with Sansa earning several nods from the various guys in the circle. Laughing and blushing slightly, she still failed to see where Margaery was going with all of this.

Flicking a strand of glossy hair over her shoulder, Margaery continued. “I expected an incredibly gorgeous, totally intimidating hall mate to strut through the door and leave me flustered and insecure, practically wishing my presence was as strong as hers. Instead, I got something better.” As Margaery’s eyes met hers, Sansa noticed them go soft. “An equally beautiful and crazily intelligent best friend, who I love to death.”

The collective “ _aww_ ” was almost comical and through it all, Sansa couldn’t stop grinning. She put both hands over her heart, and mouthed a comically oversize “I love you too” back at her best friend. Marg grinned.

“Secondly…” Marg kept her eyes on Sansa for a few seconds, but finally turned away to address her rapt audience. “I’m going to talk about my other best friend. All of you know Queen Marina.” Even the boys were nodding. Marina was Margaery’s pet Persian cat, notorious for the million or so pictures of her owner posted on Instagram, completely dominating the #queenmarina hashtag. “Right, so… I went to see her recently not because she was sick, as I probably told all of you. She wasn’t sick. She was actually pregnant.”

Sansa’s smile faded, eyes widening in surprise.

“My grandmother called a few months ago when Marina gave birth, and this was supposed to be a birthday surprise for Sansa.” Margaery smiled, eyes flickering around the room. “But I guess Christmas came earlier. Excuse me.” She whipped out her mobile and dialled a number—then, slowly and deliberately, she held up her phone for everyone to see. On FaceTime was Margaery’s super-fit brother, Loras, smiling for the camera.

“You got me your _brother_ for Christmas?” Sansa said, in an expression of mock shock. Margaery laughed and rolled her eyes. But she held up the mobile for everyone to see Loras, dressed in a handsome blue jumper with only his shoulders in the frame. Everyone crowded close for a better view.

“Hello, everyone!” Loras said into the phone, then paused to smile. Like Margaery, he was a Tyrell who knew how to work a camera to his best advantage. “Right, so Margaery’s been going on about this for ages.” He peered into the camera, locating Sansa. “Sansa! Happy Christmas, darling. How are you?”

“I’m great, Loras, you?” Sansa said, somewhat faintly. “What’s… what’s all this, then?”

“Oh. I’m happy to tell you that Marg has a very special surprise for you.” Without prolonging the suspense, Loras scooped one hand up into the frame. In his palm was a tiny ball of white fur. “Is that—” Sansa began, hardly believing her eyes.

“This is one of Queen Marina’s kittens!” Loras said, proudly. He held the kitten up to his face and nuzzled it gently; Myranda let out a stifled moan somewhere in the background at the sight of Loras cuddling a baby cat. “Hello, darling,” he said to the ball of fur. “Smile for the camera?” The kitty didn’t want to uncurl itself, so he tucked his finger under the kitten’s chin, displaying a quick, heart-meltingly adorable flash of pointy little ears and stubbornly shut eyes. Loras shook his head apologetically, lifting his face to the camera again. “Oh, she’s shy. But all yours! We haven’t taken the liberty of naming her yet.”

Sansa pressed herself up to the screen, physically trying not to squeal. “Oh my god, Margaery! You got me a _kitten_?”

“For us to keep at my family’s house, or for you to send home to yours,” Margaery said, beaming at her over the top of the mobile screen. “I know it’s not exactly the most practical gift since we’re not allowed pets here but, you know, an honorary pet…”

“You’d better share with us!” said Edric, blue eyes lighting up as he leaned closer for a better look at the screen. “God, it’s cute, innit? Hello,” he cooed at the screen. “Hello, kitty.”

The noise of the room around them seemed to fade away for Sansa as she turned to her best friend, who quickly surrendered her mobile for the others to coo over the tiny kitten. “Do you like it?” Margaery asked, a playful smile threatening to spill across her face.

“Marg, it’s the best gift ever!” Sansa exclaimed. She threw her arms around Margaery’s neck once more, forgetting everything else for a moment, everyone else in the room, and the fact that a cat was a totally impractical but perfect gift for her. “I absolutely love it.”

“You are,” she mumbled into Margaery’s neck, feeling lighter than air and just as happy, “the best Secret Santa _ever_.”

 

 

**Ned**

Ned tapped his pen on his desk thoughtfully, keeping an eye on the clock. His four o’clock meeting was nearly over, and he needed to phone Catelyn. As soon as the briefing had concluded and the press secretary had left his office, he reached over and dialled his wife’s work number.

She picked up on the second ring. “Hello, husband.”

“What were you doing, waiting by the phone?” he teased.

His wife didn’t brook any of his teasing. “I’m at my desk, Ned. Look, darling, I need to check some things with you. The Karstarks have responded to our invitation, but Rickard is still offended about the thing that happened last year. Could you give him a ring? I know he’ll come if you ask him, and I don’t want there to be any bad blood…”

Ned made a note of it on his blotter. “All right. What else?”

“There’s the live music to deal with, and deciding the menu…”

Listening to his wife continue listing all the many party details that needed attending, Ned couldn’t help but reminisce a bit about how this tradition of theirs had gotten started. Nearly thirty years ago, as newlyweds just moved into Ned’s ancestral manor north of London, they’d decided to have a housewarming party. It was December, so the logical thing seemed to be a New Year’s party. Every year since he and Catelyn had celebrated with family friends new and old, not to mention new Stark children—and despite how comfortable they felt year-round, the New Year’s party never failed to make Winterfell feel like even more of a home for all of them.

They went through a list of requisites that lasted some twenty-odd minutes. When his wife had finished, Ned told her, “It sounds good, darling.”

Even over the phone, he knew what it sounded like when Catelyn was smiling. “I’m just so excited to have everyone coming home for Christmas, you know?” she said, her voice warm.

Ned smiled broadly, folding a hand over his mobile phone. “I know, darling. I am too.”

Catelyn sighed with contentment, and for a moment there was nothing but silence on the line. Ned’s heart ached with love for this woman, his amazing wife who was just as ruthlessly competent at her job as she was at everything else. Catelyn made it look easy: running everything at home at Winterfell, raising their children to be totally self-sufficient, and organizing their legendary New Years’ party every year with the planning expertise of a war general.

“So Robb and Daenerys are coming up on Saturday, right?” he asked, steering the conversation back to practicalities.

“That’s right. We’ll be giving them Robb’s old room. I’ve bought new sheets for them.”

“Oh.” Ned paused.

“Ned, they’ve just gotten married, you can’t really expect them to sleep _apart_.”

“Well… I suppose it’s about time we let them stay in the same room,” he allowed grudgingly. As a father to so many, Ned knew he ought to be used to dealing with his children’s significant others—but he just didn’t approve of kids sleeping in the same room until they were married, call him old-fashioned. The fact that Robb and Daenerys finally _had_ gotten married still didn’t do much to change Ned’s opinions on their sleeping arrangements. Change didn’t happen overnight.

“That’s right, Grandpa.” Catelyn snorted in a very unladylike way. “Anyhow, Robb’s very excited to be coming home; he’s just phoned and told me.”

“We’re all very excited to see him, too.” None of them had seen much of Robb since the wedding, since Robb had resumed his medical residency in London with extra attention. If all went well, Ned’s eldest would be a licensed physician by the end of the year. “And you’re bringing Sansa home tomorrow, correct?”

“That’s right, when term ends.”

“All right, darling.” Ned smiled into the phone. “I’ll see you at home tonight, okay?”

“All right. Love you.”

“I love you too,” he said, but waited for his wife to hang up first. It was a little superstition he had; as long as he did it, nothing bad could ever come between them.

 

 

**Jon**

Jon got off the city bus and shivered, a blast of cold air hitting him as he exited through the folding door. Tugging his scarf even tighter, Jon shoved both hands into his coat pockets and entered the hospital.

Cailin Medical Center’s entrance was wide and cheerful, and the lobby was decorated with several gorgeous Christmas trees, each one over ten feet tall and bedecked in tinsel and sparkling lights. Jon took it all in in silence for a moment, marvelling at how the trees complimented the high-ceilinged inner structure of the building, before crossing to go the way he’d gone so many times before.

Robb met him at the hospital staff entrance, and greeted him with a big smile and firm hug. Jon’s cousin looked exhausted but happy, with dark smudges under his eyes and more reddish beard than usual decorating his chin. Jon was about to tease him about looking rather worn-down for a married man, but decided against it.

“So how’s things?” Robb asked conversationally, drawing back a little to look at Jon.

“Good,” Jon said. “Everything’s going really well.” He nodded, loosening the scarf at his neck until the knot was loose enough to hang just below his collar.

He’d been visiting Robb for lunch at the hospital for over a year now, ever since Robb had started his foundation training here. Extra hours of work meant that Robb couldn’t remain at Winterfell much longer, and without any hesitation their parents decided to let their eldest son begin living in the residential ward of Cailin Medical, making it much easier for Robb to reach his work. This wasn’t much of a problem for Jon either, as he had a small studio unit rented out for his freelancing use at Barrowton, much closer to Robb’s workplace than to Winterfell. Jon had treated Robb on his first day of training by ordering his favorite Chinese dumplings, and the rest was history.

“So, Christmas soon, back with the family,” Jon began, feeling rather as if the subject couldn’t be avoided. If he didn’t bring it up, Robb undoubtedly would.

“I know, only a few more days before we go up! I’m bloody ready for a break. Pulled an overnight shift the other day and still haven’t recovered.” Robb indicated the circles beneath his eyes, before breaking into another grin. “Ah, I can’t wait, it’s going to be fantastic. You’ll go skiing with me, yeah?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jon said without hesitation. Skiing was another tradition the two eldest Stark brothers liked to maintain, always starting at the same time at the very top of a steep slope and ending roughly a split-second after one another as well. They had used to keep track of wins and losses when they were boys, but hardly any of that seemed to matter now.

The cousins descended the stairs to the hospital cafeteria in companionable silence; once they’d been seated with sandwiches and coffee, they resumed their conversation. Robb spoke through a mouthful of pastrami and rye. “I’m thinking of doing a night hike, through the woods—I want to show Dany the real Winterfell. What do you think?”

“Yeah, sounds brilliant,” Jon said enthusiastically. Truthfully, though, he’d never felt quite the same connection to Winterfell as Robb did. It was his home, yes, but he hadn’t felt too torn up about leaving it for university—unlike Robb, who returned for visits every chance he had. If Jon were to be perfectly honest, he knew he’d never felt entirely at home at Winterfell. But then again, Jon had never felt entirely comfortable anywhere.

Robb nodded, grinning. “Yeah, I think Dad will be into it, too. It’ll be tops. Dany’s only ever been to Winterfell for the New Year’s party, she’s never stayed for Christmas before.” Finished wolfing down his meal, Robb stretched expansively, leaned back in his chair, and turned his full attention to Jon. “How’s work, and everything?”

“Good, really good,” Jon said, warming slightly to the topic. That was true. He’d been getting plenty of commissions over the holidays, which was always a blessing for a freelance graphic designer. He knew the risks freelancing entailed, and was glad to know that at least for now, they hadn’t caught up to him yet. With any luck, they never would.

Robb grinned again, leaning over to clap Jon on the upper arm. “Well done, Jon! I always knew you were so naff at all that—art stuff, and whatnot.” Then he paused, looking almost sheepish, and Jon knew exactly was he was going to ask before he even asked it. “So not to bother you, mate, I know you’re a busy man… but how’re those wedding photos coming along? Dany’s been asking about them. She’s dying to see the finished product.”

Jon cleared his throat, making a vague sound. “Oh, she must’ve seen a thousand photos of the wedding by now! They’re all over Facebook.”

Robb chuckled a bit at that. “That’s true, mate. But she loves the few pictures of yours that she saw. She thinks that they’ll turn out so much better than the others—more personal, whatever that means.”

Jon swallowed hard. “Oh, they’re good. They’re good, Robb. They just… need a little more time is all. I hope you understand.” He shot a quick eye in Robb’s direction, trying to see if Robb had smelled anything fishy, but Robb seemed to be thinking about something else. The other man took a sip of coffee, and seemed to be hesitating over something. “Jon, mate,” he said at last. “Promise me something, will you?”

Jon felt his stomach seize with nerves. He stared at his cousin, who looked uncharacteristically serious. Robb went on almost gravely. “You know this Christmas, when we’re all at Winterfell—promise me you’ll be nice to Dany?”

It took all of Jon’s self-restraint to smile guardedly. He felt queasy suddenly. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Robb said carefully, “she sort of—she thinks you don’t like her.”

Jon’s throat suddenly felt very dry. “W—what?”

Robb gave him a careful look. “Well, I don’t think you’ve ever said two words to her. Every time we’re together you just clam up.”

Jon felt suddenly very tired. “Robb, I—” _I just get overwhelmed, all right? I really don’t think you’d understand, and unfortunately, it’s_ really _not something I can explain._ “You know I’m just… not great with people.”

Robb patted his shoulder gently and then, to Jon’s total surprise, began to snigger. “Well, mate, I did just end up telling her the truth.”

Jon’s heart almost stopped in his chest. “Which is… what, exactly?” he managed to say.

“I told her that you’re just that awkward with everyone.”

Jon punched his cousin in the arm as Robb burst into uncontrollable laughter. “’Strue, though,” Robb said, when he’d finishing snorting at Jon’s expense. “You’re like the _definition_ of British.”

“Thanks,” Jon muttered. He could feel himself colouring. “Thanks a lot.”

“All in good fun, mate,” Robb said good-naturedly. He checked his watch and raised his eyebrows before getting to his feet in a bit of a hurry. “Whoops, I’ve only got ten minutes before I’ve got to be back in rounds. Better go.”

But as they crossed the cafeteria to dispose of their trays, Robb stopped short and put a finger to his lips. “Jon. Do you hear that?”

Jon paused. “What?” All he could hear was the dull murmur of lunch conversations all around them, and something playing over the loudspeaker with electric guitar and synthesizer—a _lot_ of synthesizer. Then the vocals started, and—oh. Right.

“That’s _it_ ,” Robb said, with an expression that warred between disgust and amusement. “It’s Uncle Robert’s song, the one Mum said he was going to re-release.”

They listened for a few seconds, frozen in place next to one another. “God, it’s awful, isn’t it?” Jon said, grimacing. Even he could admit to liking a good number of Uncle Robert’s original classics, and he never turned his nose up at a good cover, but _this_ particular song—well. “Travesty” would be putting it lightly.

But then Robb looked at Jon, with a twinkle in his eye that said he was about to do something _really_ embarrassing. Then he did it. He opened his mouth and started singing along.

“Robb, stop singing.” Jon took a look around, embarrassedly. But everyone else in the cafeteria just seemed to be amused by Robb’s antics. They were probably used to it. Robb kept singing the lyrics, and accompanying it with little hip pops just like Uncle Robert’s in his prime. Jon actually saw several women crane their heads around to watch, whispering to each other. One even snapped a photo on her mobile phone.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Jon mumbled, turning beet-red. Mercifully, Robb decided to stop hamming it up by the time they reached the bin. Grinning widely, he turned to Jon.

“Well, I’ve got to dash. Good to see you, as always, mate. I’ll see you at home, right, at Winterfell?” Robb grinned at him, blue eyes full of happiness, and Jon found himself wondering not for the first time how they could have been raised side-by-side yet turned out so utterly different. “In a week?”

“Right.” Jon opened his arms to accept Robb’s fierce hug and kiss on the cheek. “See you there, Robb.”

 

 

 **Stannis**  

It was eerily quiet as Stannis stepped into the entryway of his Primrose Hill home that night. Taking care to keep quiet, Stannis locked the door behind him and slowly removed the key. Then he lowered his hands, contemplating the deep, sombre silence before him.

It was not as if his wife had been a particularly vibrant or cheerful person. But she’d had a sense of what was proper for making a home, and when she was alive their brownstone house had truly felt like a place for a family. Now it was merely a too large space that Stannis alternately felt that he constantly needed to fill with noise and clamour (which he loathed) just to approximate some feeling of normal life, or a tomblike place whose silence threatened to swallow both Stannis and his daughter in the marked absence of the woman who had rounded out their neat, compact little unit.

Selyse had died of Stage IV leukaemia in March. Although Stannis had not loved her, had not even genuinely cared for her in a way that was more than his filial duty, the careful equilibrium of his life had been utterly disrupted by his wife’s death. Now all the weight of being a parent was on him, and every day he felt like he was failing in some way. A family was supposed to have a mother _and_ a father, wasn’t it? Shireen would now have to grow up without a mother: surely that would affect her in the long run?

He felt guilty for staying out later than usual tonight; going for a drink with Davos had taken longer than he’d imagined. Davos had kept buying them gin and tonics and coaxing Stannis to see the humour in Robert’s dreadful Christmas song until Stannis had finally given in and laughed. But he’d texted Shireen, and she’d said she was absolutely fine being left alone for an hour and a half. If there was anything he could count on about his daughter, it was that she could take care of herself.

Stannis knew exactly where Shireen would be, given the hour. He set down his briefcase, removing his overcoat and scarf, and then hung them carefully in the closet. Keeping quiet out of habit, he crept through the kitchen without turning on the lights. Stepping into the corridor, he saw the dim light glowing from the family room.

He stepped in to see his daughter sitting on the carpeted floor, legs extended before her, with her back against the long suede sofa. An episode of _Doctor Who_ playing on the telly, and Stannis, who had predicted no less, smiled in spite of himself. Though it baffled him, Shireen (and the rest of the United Kingdom, apparently) was mad about that programme.

Standing in the doorway he cleared his throat. His daughter must have caught his reflection in the screen, for she immediately grabbed the clicker and paused what she was watching. “Daddy!” she said brightly, turning around and looking up at him. “Hello.”

“Hello, Shireen.” Stannis came forward and knelt to press a kiss to her cheek, covered in its plum birthmark. Some of the nastier children at school had only stopped picking on her a couple of months ago. Stannis had learnt about the teasing because he knew his daughter never looked him in the eye when she was upset, and had made it stop because he had considerably speedy methods of obtaining parents’ phone numbers. It hardly mattered. Plum birthmark or not, his daughter was beautiful just as she was.

“You’re watching television already? Did you finish your homework?” He folded his hands over his knees and raised his eyebrows sternly.

“ _Yes_ , Daddy,” Shireen said, rolling her eyes rather good-naturedly. He had the feeling that she was simply humouring his performance of parental duties, as always. “There isn’t much on, since it’s almost the holidays and the stations have been doing reruns. And my homework’s just by the dinner table,” she added.

“Show me,” he said sternly. Obligingly, Shireen got up and went to her rucksack to pull out her completed work. “See?” she said, in agreeable defeat. “It’s only a little bit of long division. Easy, really.”

He inspected the homework sheet and, satisfied, ruffled her hair. “Good girl.” He settled down beside her on the floor, and she promptly wrapped a hand around his bicep in its suit-jacket-clad sleeve and rested her head on his shoulder. He felt his heart warm. Shireen loved him unconditionally, in a way that he often felt he didn’t deserve. He thanked God every day for that fact.

“This programme again?” he asked mildly.

“It’s only the best programme, _ever_ ,” Shireen said indignantly. But her eyes stayed glued to the screen, as if it wouldn’t be worth her time to miss a single moment just to prove a point to her dad. He wasn’t completely clueless about it, even if his daughter gave him the strangest looks whenever he asked what the doctor’s bloody name was. Her favorite doctor was the ninth one, played by Christopher Eccleston, whom she claimed resembled Stannis the most.

“He’s really serious all the time but can also be really funny when he wants to be, and a lot of people go on and say he’s bald. But _I_ know he has a little bit of hair growing out, just like you,” she told him once, and showed him a neatly-drawn picture in crayon of him and Eccleston fighting what looked to him like upside-down trash bins, with one eye each and metallic rods for arms. He’d nodded politely and studied the picture in mild confusion. Children could be so bizarre.

They watched in silence together until the episode ended some ten minutes later. Shireen paused the DVR, and turned to face her father. “How was work today, Daddy?”

He thought about it. “It was all right. Not fantastic, but not bad in any way, either.”

“That’s good.” Shireen looked at him expectantly. “Did Davos help you?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Help with what?”

“You know, _do_ things.” Shireen only had a vague idea of what it was her father did at work all day, but seemed to be of the opinion that it consisted of doing very important things, and a lot of them. “That’s Davos’ job, isn’t it? To help you do things?”

Stannis considered. “Well, yes, I suppose. Why do you ask?”

“I only wanted to know,” Shireen said simply, and then smiled, falling back against the foot of the sofa and twisting her little body up like a puppy, so that she was looking at him nearly upside-down. She often did that when she was feeling particularly pleased. “Davos is my favorite. He’s so nice. When is he coming over again?”

Stannis licked his lips, opened his mouth to answer, and then paused, thinking. There were not many people in his life that passed for friends. So when Davos, the man who had stood stalwartly at his side for over a decade, had extended his sympathies after Selyse’s death and offered his company in the same blunt manner that he conducted business, Stannis had rather dazedly accepted it. Davos had come round a few times per month ever since Selyse had passed away, and in that time, he had gone from a faceless business associate of Stannis’s to a family friend whom Shireen eagerly asked for by name.

Yes, ‘dazed’ was the appropriate word Stannis thought of when he remembered his state of mind shortly after Selyse had passed away. One would think that Stannis hadn’t already been a father for nine years, the way he felt totally at sea. But Selyse had always made the proper decisions for Shireen: picked out her clothes, come up with the options for her schools. Without her, Stannis barely even knew where to begin. Odd, how he was perfectly able to run one of Britain’s top companies—but when it came to bringing up his daughter, he felt completely adrift.

In a fit of near despair one month after Selyse’s death, inundated by notices from Shireen’s school—regular stuff, parents’ queuing for pickup after school, that sort of thing—Stannis had even started to wonder desperately if maybe he ought to send Shireen to boarding school, where at least a complete mess would not be made of her upbringing.

“Now don’t you do that,” Davos had said firmly over a round of drinks when Stannis had advanced the idea, gripping Stannis by the shoulders as if to shake him out of the very thought.

“I went to boarding school,” Stannis said stiffly, “and I—”

“Right, but your mother hadn’t just died, had she? Shireen needs you, Stannis, and you’re very important to her even if it doesn’t seem that way to you.”

Luckily, Shireen was a sweet, open, and trusting little girl. She loved her father, and accepted all his clumsy overtures at bonding. She could chatter on while he just listened. At first it was like listening to a different language, but now he was familiar with all the landmarks of his daughter’s nine-year-old life. She loved Doctor Who, and hated courgettes. Shireen’s world was simple, and relatively happy, and Stannis would do his damnedest to make sure things stayed that way.

Davos had really seen him through all those bad months, though. Now that Stannis had recovered, bonded with his daughter, and no longer felt like this single father business was so unbearably confusing, he felt actually a bit embarrassed about the emotional debt he owed Davos. He’d never had that with anyone before, simply because he’d never had to handle his emotions in such a way. It was near impossible to go back to a friendly but crisp and chill business arrangement, as he and Davos had had for over ten years, when Davos now knew the inner workings of his life. And Stannis honestly wasn’t sure how he felt about it. 

“Let’s ask Davos round to make Christmas biscuits!” Shireen burst out, with a sudden flash of excitement.

Stannis hesitated for a moment, caught by surprise. _That would be perfectly fine, wouldn’t it?_ Shireen looked so enthusiastic about the idea, he couldn’t bear to let her down.

“All right. I suppose we could do that.” He checked his watch, and had a bit of a shock when he realised the time. “Half-nine? It’s nearly your bedtime, Shireen. Time to go.”

“Daaaddy…” Shireen slumped back against the sofa. “Can’t I watch just a little more of the next episode? Please?”

“No, Shireen. It’s your bedtime, and you have school tomorrow.” He patted her head, then folded his arms and watched as she obediently trundled off to ready herself for bed.

 

 

**Sansa**

She finished zipping up her duffle bag and lugged it out of her room, groaning inwardly at how heavy it was. Who knew that clothes could weigh this much? All she was bringing were a few party dresses, her winter jumpers, some woolly socks and leggings—everything she needed to stay warm at home over the holiday, really.

She was also bringing every single one of the Secret Santa presents that Margaery had given her. All of the gifts that she’d gushed over as she’d received them, amazed at how well her Secret Santa seemed to know her, now took on special significance. The Jo Malone perfume, the grey knitted mittens decorated with silver jewels and royal purple satin ribbon along with a matching grey cowl scarf, the ballet pumps with cat faces on the toes, the mix tape full of acoustic covers… Sansa felt so silly for not realizing that _of course_ her Secret Santa must have been Margaery. But it’d been so difficult to figure out when there was so much subterfuge involved! She’d just assumed that her gift giver must have asked around to find out what Sansa liked. Now that she knew it had been all Margaery, though, she was newly touched by her best friend’s incredible thoughtfulness and attention to detail.

Margaery was waiting for Sansa in the entry of their flat. “Ready?” she said with a smile. She was wearing a gorgeous Burberry trench with gold brocade and emerald satin collar and cuffs, and the colour perfectly brought out her eyes.

“Yeah,” Sansa said breathlessly, and together they lugged their bags out down the three flights of stairs onto the kerb.

Shivering in the early afternoon chill, Sansa carefully buttoned the top button on her pale pink pea coat, under which she wore an ivory fisherman’s jumper over a sky-blue button down shirt, skinny jeans, and chocolate leather riding boots. She was waiting for her mother to finish locking up her office in the Department of Arts and Humanities building; once Catelyn brought the estate car round, they would head up north to Winterfell. Margaery was waiting for the chauffeured car that would deliver her to her family’s home in Belgravia, one of the poshest parts of London.

“That last exam was absolutely killer,” Margaery said with a sigh, nudging her suitcase with one foot. “I’m so glad that Prince Charming’s final assignment is a term paper.”

“Which we are going to absolutely slay,” Sansa said with a giggle.

Margaery raised an eyebrow thoughtfully. “Well, it was kind of genius to do ours on companion works—referencing sources has _never_ been easier.” She opened her mouth to go on, but was interrupted by her buzzing mobile. Reading the message, Marg laughed and immediately began to type out her lightning-fast response, glancing at Sansa with a grin. “Only Loras.”

Sansa smiled back. “What does he say? Any sly snaps of the PM in his boxer shorts, or anything?” Loras’ new job in the Prime Minister’s house had made Margaery a demi-celebrity on campus, with everyone begging for insider details. Margaery laughed it off every time, but confided to Sansa that not only was the new PM super fit; he was apparently also _incredibly_ nice.

“Ha, Loras wishes. No, he’s asking about our party. I _really_ wish you could come,” Sansa’s best friend added, fixing Sansa with her big brown eyes as she slipped her phone back into her coat pocket.

She laughed. “God, Marg, don’t give me the puppy dog look! I’ve told you a million times why I can’t come.”

Margaery nodded, rolling her eyes a little. “I know, but…”

Sansa softened. “I really wish I could,” she said, reaching out and sliding her fingers through Margaery’s. “But this party has been a family tradition since before I was _born_. The entire family is going to be there, just like every year, and it would be practically disappointing my duty as a Stark if I went anywhere else. Mum and Dad would never forgive me.” She paused. “You could always come up to Winterfell…”

Marg sighed, looking downcast. “Sans, you know I can’t! This is the first time Loras and I have been given reign to plan the entire New Year’s party, and we’ve been preparing since June.”

Sansa bit her lip in understanding. “I know… I only wish that—oh, bye, Myranda!” she called, as Myranda Royce emerged from the building doors, wearing an anorak and carrying a chic valise.

“Bye, girls,” Myranda said. She eyed their hands and tipped them a wink. Sansa blushed, but it didn’t make her stop holding Margaery’s hand. Who cared? Everyone knew they were best friends.

She was cold, though, so she dug into the pocket of her jacket for the knit mittens Margaery had given her, pulling them on. Margaery’s face lit up when she saw. “Oh, you’re wearing them!”

Sansa beamed back at her. “I love them. And I _still_ can’t believe I didn’t know you were my Secret Santa,” she groaned, changing the subject as Myranda trotted off into the distance behind Margaery. “Those things—the perfume, the cat shoes? It was all too perfect.”

Margaery smiled genuinely, eyes lighting with warmth. “Well, I loved being your Secret Sansa—I mean, Secret Santa.” She laughed, pulling a face at her own mistake. “I kept wanting to say it that way the whole time, you have no idea.”

“Well, everything you gave me was perfect.” Sansa shook her head at herself. “I should have totally guessed it was you.”

“You just didn’t realise how well I know you, Sansa,” Margaery said with an oddly meaningful note in her voice, and reached out to brush back a loose strand of Sansa’s hair. “I loved the gifts you got me, too.”

Sansa broke into a wide smile. “Those poems made me think of you.”

“That’s so bloody romantic,” Margaery sighed, sounding as if she was trying not to laugh. “See, I should have known too, shouldn’t I? Who else in either of our flats would have gotten me a book of Pablo Neruda’s poetry?”

“That’s right, you should have known,” Sansa teased. She paused. “I’m really going to miss you over the hols, you know.”

Margaery turned to her, looking genuinely touched. “Really, Sans? I—I’m really going to miss you, too.”

“Yeah,” Sansa said, biting her lip to keep back laughter. “Do you want to hear a poem about how much I’m going to miss you?”

Margaery’s eyes lost their softness and she opened her mouth in indignation, eyes sparkling. “You are the _worst_ —”

But Sansa cut in first, quoting Neruda at the top of her voice. “‘Don’t go far off, not even for a day, because—’”

They were both reading literature (well, Margaery was doing a joint-honour in business and comparative literature), but somehow Margaery didn’t exactly share Sansa’s love for reciting poetry. Sansa knew it, too. It was the absolute best way to annoy Margaery: being aggressively nerdy.

“‘I don’t know how to say it: a day is long and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep. Don’t—’”

“This is not the 1950s and you are not in grammar school,” Margaery complained now, loudly, though her burst of laughter rather spoilt the effect. She narrowed her eyes at Sansa, giving her a gentle shove. “Stop it!”

“Right, right, okay. Maybe you’d prefer one of his love poems?” Sansa winked, intentionally hamming it up for Marg’s benefit. “‘I want you to know one thing. You know how this is—’”

Margaery let out an incredulous, fond noise. “You are just _too_ —”

Sansa grinned, speaking faster and with more confidence. She grabbed Margaery’s hands between her own mittened ones and went on quoting ‘If You Forget Me.’ “‘If I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window…’”

“Stop it, lit major, or I’ll _make_ you.”

Sansa wrinkled her nose as she tried not to laugh, mentally acknowledging that yes, _maybe_ she was showboating a little. She’d known Margaery loved Latin American poetry ever since Marg had confessed it while cramming for their Latin Studies module last March—obviously, she wasn’t about to stop now. “‘If I touch near the fire, the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log…’”

Margaery leaned in, looking at Sansa intently. Something in her expression changed. _Good, I knew she liked Neruda,_ Sansa thought, pleased.

“‘ _Everything_ carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that—’”

Like an idiot, Sansa was still reciting poetry when her best friend kissed her—before she even quite realised was happening, their lips had met and they were kissing very gently, just once.

 _Oh_ , she thought, feeling herself blush and something catch, glittering, in her chest. And just like the words that sprang interrupted to her lips, _that_ was poetry.

 _But—but she’s my best friend…_ her mind stammered, and another voice in her head said, _So?_

After a moment Sansa pulled back, staring, lost for words where only seconds prior she had had a surfeit of them. Margaery’s eyes were wide, and her cheeks were pink, either from the cold or from something else. Sansa couldn’t tell.

“Wow,” she said, slightly stunned.

“Good wow,” Margaery said slowly, not taking her eyes off Sansa’s, “or bad wow?”

“Good wow,” Sansa said in a whisper.

Margaery looked like she was about to smile, but wasn’t sure if she could, or should. “I—I guess I was hoping you’d say that.”

Just then, with the world’s worst timing, Sansa saw a very familiar estate car approaching in the turnabout. “Oh, god,” she said in disbelief. “It’s my mum.”

She turned to Margaery, eyes wide, but neither of them had time to say a word before the car pulled up to the kerb beside them. Catelyn Stark got out on the driver’s side. She had her mobile in hand, and appeared to be texting. “Sansa, darling,” she said briskly, glancing up, “are you ready? We’ve got to go. We’re picking your dad up at King’s Cross at 2:30.”

“Um,” said Sansa. “Yes. Yes, I’m… ready.”

Turning back to Margaery, she wanted suddenly, more than anything, to kiss Margaery again. Quickly, but— _god_ —her mum was right there, and it was insane to even think about it, because she’d never even considered it before! Margaery was her best _friend_.

Instead Sansa dropped her eyes, fumbling for words and for her bags. “The boot’s open, dear,” Catelyn called. She looked up from her mobile to greet Margaery with a smile. “Hello, Margaery. How are you?”

“Fine, Professor Stark,” Margaery said with a polite answering smile. Only someone who knew her as well as Sansa did would have noticed that it was less dazzling than usual.

“Well, I’d better,” Sansa said awkwardly, gesturing toward her bags.

Margaery moved quickly. “Right—let me help you.” They carried her bags to the boot of the car, lifting them in together, standing close side by side. Sansa paused with her hand on the top of the boot door and they stood there looking at one another, with an awkwardness that hadn’t been present in their friendship since they’d met over a year ago. “Marg,” she said quietly, “Um… I…” Margaery was looking at her with an odd expression, and it took Sansa to recognise that Margaery looked _nervous—_ almost as if she was frightened of what Sansa might say.

“Sansa!” Her mum’s voice sounded very loud.

She startled. “Let’s talk over break, yeah?” she said quickly. “I know we can’t do anything for New Year’s, but maybe we can hang out after that? I can come down to London, or… or maybe you can come up to Winterfell?”

“Yeah,” said Margaery, and her smile looked shaky with relief. “After all, we’ve both got that paper to work on.” She paused, then added with a dash of her usual cheek, “And you’ve got to meet your kitten.”

Sansa nodded hastily. “Yes, let’s—”

“Sansa, we really have to rush! Let’s go!”

Why did mothers always have the most awful, perfect timing? With a heavy exhale of frustration, Sansa closed the boot and Margaery walked her back up to the front of the car. She stopped with her heels on the kerb, facing her friend. “So—goodbye,” she said, hesitating.

“Bye,” said Margaery, her eyes very big. She bit her lip, and then leaned in and brushed her bare fingers across Sansa’s mouth, quickly, so that Sansa actually shivered. It was as if she was frozen, rooted to the spot. Should she do it? Should she go in for another kiss? _But—what if Mum sees? What if someone sees?_ And then, _Why in the hell should I care if anyone sees?_

But in the end, after the passage of a few seconds that felt like ages, Sansa took the cowardly route. She leaned forward, only to press a kiss to her best friend’s cheek. “Bye, Marg,” she whispered, and turned away. In a daze, she opened the door and slid into the passenger seat, where her mum nodded at her briskly. “Right, Sansa, are you ready?”

“Yeah,” she said, not thinking. She pressed her face to the glass of the window. Even though it was warm in the car, she much rather would have been out there in the cold with Margaery. _What on earth just happened?_

Margaery stared back at her, her eyes as big as Sansa’s felt. She lifted one gloved hand to the window to wave, and Margaery raised her own hand, looking dazed. Her lips had been so soft. Sansa had known Margaery for over a year… how had she never known that Margaery’s lips would be that soft?

“Right, I hope you don’t mind listening to cheesy Christmas music,” said Catelyn cheerfully, and turned on the radio, but it could have been dead silent for all Sansa knew or cared. 

She didn’t stop looking back until Margaery was out of sight.

 

 

**Renly**

Britain was all goodwill and cheer at this time of year, and Renly’s job felt almost easy, at least on the domestic front. His days were scheduled nearly nonstop with press conferences and charity photo ops, which were undoubtedly his specialty. A lot of Renly’s critics had been on his case about all that, suggesting he was about style over substance—which would’ve been quite troubling for him had he actually lost his ministerial campaign. Granting that the exact opposite had happened, Renly should have been all smiles now, enjoying his much deserved win. Instead, he was quietly preparing himself for the real work to come, knowing that public relations will eventually be replaced by the real heavy lifting of the job he had earned.

Yes, Renly had worked hard for this, worked hard to become the youngest Prime Minister in history. He’d been preparing himself for a political career since age 14, worked his absolute hardest in school, and spent the last eight years of his life currying favour with everyone in his party in order to be chosen, eventually, as the dark horse pick for PM when his party was voted into power. He had real plans for Britain: a new Britain, a young Britain, and he couldn’t afford to get distracted. That was what Renly kept telling himself.

Yethe kept seeing that young man, Loras, everywhere, and there was no way he could pretend that it was anything other than perfectly, wonderfully distracting.

Coming around the corner one morning as he headed to breakfast, Renly stopped absolutely short at the sight of Loras straightening up the main drawing room. “Oh—hello there.”

Loras stood up, painfully handsome in his chocolate brown velvet suit. “Good morning, Mr Prime Minister,” he said politely. His curly brown hair gleamed in the sunlight, and his composed almost-smile displayed the hint of a beautiful dimple.

Renly cleared his throat, feeling his pulse quicken just a bit. “Nice, ah… nice day, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is, Mr Prime Minister,” Loras said, looking rather like the cat who’d gotten the cream. He nodded towards the breakfast room. “You’re lucky. I saw them laying out chocolate croissants in there.” He smiled at Renly sweetly. “And you’ve got a busy day ahead of you, haven’t you?”

Renly laughed. “Ah, yes.” He had a series of meetings in the council rooms to look forward to, keeping him busy into the late afternoon. “Fascinating stuff, today. Lots of oil meetings, with following counterpoints on renewable energy.”

“Well, it’s important to have a big breakfast, then,” Loras said pleasantly. “With your leave.” He moved to walk past, but Renly cleared his throat. His curiosity and his interest were getting the better of him. _And… I’ve hardly spoken to him—I don’t even know what he’s like. Maybe he’s daft? If he’s gorgeous but kind of stupid, I probably won’t fancy him any more, and then I’ll be rid of this sticky situation for once and for all. Brilliant thinking, Renly!_

“Loras—a moment? If you’re not busy?”

Loras turned round expectantly, right away, almost as if he’d been hoping Renly might say something. “No, sir. What is it?”

Renly was already kicking himself for giving into his baser impulses, but it was difficult to keep scolding himself when he had just earned a whole conversation’s worth of staring at that angelic face. “I just … Well, I suppose I find this a bit awkward.” He paused, taking in Loras’ slight look of shock, and then continued. “The fact that—we’re working together and I, ah, hardly know anything about you.”

Loras paused for a moment, and then a smile spread across his lips. He looked flattered, and not at all daft. _Bugger_. _So much for that idea._ “What would you like to know?” the younger man asked, the picture of proper English manners.

Renly smiled back. “Well, where you have your tailoring done, for a start.”

He said it glibly, trying to have a bit of a laugh—god, he was acting like a schoolboy, wasn’t he?—but he wasn’t joking. Loras dressed impeccably, and always looked so smart and put together. Surprised, the younger man glanced down at his suit jacket as if he hadn’t quite understood what Renly had said, as if he thought Renly might be taking the piss.

Then, realising, Loras beamed genuinely for a moment and Renly’s heart practically melted. There was something rather adorable about Loras, and he was still boyish in some ways; his flirting never quite caught up to his intentions. He was like a kitten. “Oh, thank you. It’s bespoke, Thom Sweeney.” Loras tipped his head, looking slightly more comfortable now, even a bit cheeky. “What else do you want to know?”

 _Do you fancy blokes?_ _How old are you, anyway, you look hardly out of secondary school? And who gave you the right to be so bloody gorgeous?_ “Um… just the basics, really.”

Loras shuffled his feet, shrugged, and smiled modestly. “I don’t know… I’m a few years out of university.”

“Have you got a… a history in government, or anything?”

“Yeah, my grandfather designed the gardens for Queen Victoria. Ser Garth,” Loras said, as if it was nothing. He smiled proudly.

Renly’s mouth dropped open. “Steady on? My advisor was quite obsessed with those gardens at university. I was at Oxford, so it was practically a sport to sing paeans to old dead people.”

“Ha, I see. Those gardens are quite nice for flowerbeds, I think—a bit stodgy by today’s standards, but apparently in the Victorian era they were downright sexy. And I was a Cambridge man myself.” Loras smiled again, glancing at his feet with what seemed to be deliberate reticence. “And well, my father’s a peer. We’ve been in the House of Lords forever and ever, but never with any real power or anything. My family’s been wiping the arse of the monarchy for centuries now.”

Renly raised his eyebrows. “Is that so?”

Loras paused and blushed rather horribly. “Oh… Christ, excuse me. That’s just… something my grandmother says. She also says our family is ‘always the host, never the guest of honour’, which is a much more polite way to put it. But—I didn’t really mean to say that just now, about the monarchy. Not to you, sir. Um.”

“Don’t worry,” Renly replied, fighting the urge to chuckle. “I won’t tell the Queen if you don’t.”

That made Loras laugh, lifting his beautiful head in surprise. Everyone always seemed so shocked, Renly thought drily, to find that their new Prime Minister actually had a sense of humour. “Anyway,” Loras continued, putting a steadying hand to his tie with regained composure, “you might say it’s in my blood to be the steward to the head government. It’s quite an honour to be here, sir.” He smiled at Renly.

Renly smiled back. “Well, it’s quite an honour to have you, Loras.” 

Was it just him, or was Loras still blushing slightly? “Very good, sir,” the young man replied, nodding politely to Renly; he straightened his shoulders and went out. And that was the most composure Renly saw him lose for a long while.

 

 

**Tyrion**

“I love France,” Tyrion slurred, waving his bottle of wine in the air. “Oh—whoops—”

He missed his chair and almost sat hard down on the ground. “Wine,” he said out loud. “It’s always the bloody wine.”

He’d taken the opportunity to fly to the secluded rental cottage where he’d arranged to take Tysha over the holidays. It was going to be a surprise; he’d planned to propose here. As it was, he had now taken the opportunity to get the goddamned fuck out of England.

Tyrion barely spoke any French, but had somehow retained enough schoolboy basics to get him by. On his rental car on the way in from the airport, he’d stopped at a supermarket and bought as many bottles of wine as he could carry. You didn’t, he’d discovered, need to speak any French to do that.

And now here he was, all alone, drinking himself into a stupor. Three bottles hadn’t had quite the effect Tyrion wanted, though. He would finish this one and open the next, and maybe that would make him forget. Forget Tysha. Forget his stupid brother. Forget the entire fucked up mess that was his life.

“You should sit up,” said a heavily accented voice, somewhere behind him.

Tyrion spun around, bottle in hand, and nearly fell over as he tried to catch his balance.

It looked like a woman. Was it a woman? It sounded like a woman. It must be. He’d never drunk to the point of hallucination before, even if this day of drunkenness did mark a particular low even for him.

“Who are you?” he slurred.

The woman snorted and came closer. It looked as if she had dark hair and dark eyes, but he couldn’t be sure. Tyrion took a cautious step to steady himself, and then decided against it. Better not risk it. He stayed where he was, swaying slightly on the spot with his bottle in his outstretched hand.

“I’m the housekeeper. Hired to clean up your mess.” The woman moved her head and made a disapproving sound. Very French. Sort of like a chicken clucking. “I thought that that would mean the house, but apparently it means you too.”

Was she really real? Tyrion’s legs sort of wobbled and gave way underneath him, and he sat down hard on the floor. It was a lot to handle, in his condition.

“Are you all right?” she said. Her French accent made it difficult to tell if she was speaking with scorn on her voice or not.

“I’ll sit on the floor if I want to sit on the floor!” Tyrion said loudly. He tried to get up, stumbled, and sat down again hard.

She made that noise again, that disapproving sound, like a click of the tongue. “ _Poulette_ ,” Tyrion said without thinking. It was funny. He laughed. “ _Poulette_.”

“What did you call me?” The woman looked positively frosty.

“ _Poule_ ,” Tyrion repeated. He made the clucking disapproving noise again, like a _tsk tsk_ noise. Only it was funnier, because she was French.

She put her hands on her hips. “You are calling me a chicken?”

“Tsk tsk,” Tyrion crowed. He took another swig from the bottle, and the room wobbled around the edges.

The woman took a chilly step backwards. “All right. I was going to stop you from vomiting, but you may do as you please. I’ll just come back to clean you up in the morning.”

She disappeared, and Tyrion made friends with another bottle after finishing the one in his hand. 

* * *

 

In the morning he woke up with a horrific, pounding headache.

Tyrion wrapped himself in his bathrobe and wandered gingerly through the cold, empty kitchen. There was nothing. Apparently he’d neglected to buy anything but wine. There was no coffee to be had, not even an espresso, which was French… sort of French-y… right?

Out of the kitchen window he caught sight of a person walking up to the main door. Wrapping his bathrobe tighter around himself, Tyrion wandered out onto the porch, squinting in the bright sunlight.

It was the same woman from the night before. She was wearing a grey jacket, jeans, and boots, holding arms wrapped tightly around herself for warmth, and came up towards him warily. “Ah, he is awake.”

At the sight of her, the remnants of his memories of last night flooded him, and the overall image he was getting wasn’t pretty. He winced, and rubbed his head. “Right. Good morning.”

“I came to clean up your mess,” she said, as if her presence warranted an explanation. “Like I said to you last night.”

He squinted at her. She was a lot younger looking than he’d expected. Then again, last night it’d been very dark, and he’d been very drunk. “You’re…”

“The housekeeper. Do you remember? I told you who I was.”

 _Right_. It was awfully ageist for him to assume that a housekeeper had to be some ancient woman. Terrible of him, really. “Yes, I do remember that.” Tyrion paused and winced as a twinge shot through his head. “I’m afraid I don’t remember your name, though.” He was fighting to be polite, but it was true that his first impression had sort of wrecked any hopes of that. Ah, well.

The woman snorted. “That’s because I didn’t tell you. My name is Shae.”

“Shae,” he repeated.

“Yes, Shae. Not _Poulette_ ,” she said sharply, and he winced. _Oh God._ So she remembered that bit, unfortunately.

“Right. Ah. It’s very nice to meet you, Shae. I’m Tyrion, from… from England. Otherwise known as the short drunk bastard who will be living in your house for the next two weeks.”

She tilted her head slightly and looked at him for a long moment, and Tyrion couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being appraised. Finally she smiled. She had a nice smile. “Enchanté, Tyrion. It is nice to meet you, too.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding. “Would you, ah, happen to know if there’s any coffee in the house?” he asked, trying to be as polite as he could. “I couldn’t find any, and… it would be nice to have some.”

“Café?” The woman looked at him inquisitively.

“Yeah, I… did some grocery shopping but,” he mumbled, “couldn’t seem to find the coffee section.” A blatant lie.

“I know where you can get the best espresso in town.” She came up closer, looking at him neutrally with cool dark eyes. “Get dressed and I will take you.”

She shivered as they came into the house. “You didn’t turn on the heat?”

“Uh…” The only thing Tyrion had been worried about last night was raising his blood alcohol level to dangerous levels; he hadn’t been bothered about the bloody heating. “I’ll just get dressed, shall I?”

She called to him from the kitchen as he went up the tiny stairs to the bedroom. “It’s very important that you turn them on, otherwise the pipes will freeze. The landlord won’t be happy, you know.”

“Yeah… er, yeah, sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

She looked at him with little sympathy as he returned to the kitchen. “That was very stupid of you.” She had two aspirin and a glass of water waiting for him on the table.

“I do stupid things a lot,” he mumbled, feeling sorry for himself. Shae looked at him mercilessly and cleared her throat. “Let’s go then,” she announced.

They stumbled down the cold path towards town. Tyrion wasn’t in any state to drive, and the cold air was somewhat painfully reviving him.

“So why were you drinking all alone last night?” Shae asked after several minutes had elapsed in silence. She was setting a rather challenging pace, and between his hangover and his shorter legs, he was struggling to keep up.

“My girlfriend left me two weeks ago,” Tyrion said shortly. “She would have been my fiancée.”

Saying it out loud made it feel simultaneously better and worse, somehow. His words seemed to punch themselves into the crisp winter air.

Shae made a sympathetic noise, glancing at him sideways. The ends of her blunt-cut black bob swung as she walked, and she had her gloved hands deep in her pockets. “Oh. I am sorry.”

Tyrion heaved a heavy sigh. “It wasn’t because of me. It was because of my family. My father didn’t like her, but I don’t like _him_ , the old cunt.” He paused. “Anyway it really shouldn’t have mattered. But it did, apparently, and she’s—she’s gone.”

“Ahh.” Shae let out a deep exhale, and just when Tyrion thought she had lapsed into silence again, she said, “These things happen.”

It didn’t make Tyrion feel any better, but it didn’t make him feel worse, either.

They reached town, and Tyrion took it in silently as they passed through the cobblestoned streets. It was a very charming little place; the travel brochures hadn’t lied. _Tysha would have loved it here_ , he thought, and then caught himself, _Fuck that._ _Fuck Tysha._ It wasn’t a very large town, though, and within minutes they reached the café. Shae led him inside to a table by the front window. She lit a cigarette and offered him one, too. They smoked pensively in silence.

“Do you want something to eat?” Shae said after a few moments.

“Sure, what’s good?”

“Everything.” She turned to look at the bar. “But we can just have the prix fixe.” She beckoned the barman over and spoke to him in quick, fast French. The man nodded wordlessly, before uttering a few words. He paused to give Tyrion an once-over, eyes sliding over Tyrion’s not-so-substantial height.

 _Bastard_. Tyrion gave him a stony look, smoke curling from the cigarette that dangled from his lip as if he were Serge Gainsbourg. The Frenchman drew back with a haughty expression and headed away.

“So what do you think of France so far?” Shae said, regarding him neutrally.

“That man,” he said, stubbing out his cigarette and shooting an irritated look in the bar’s direction, “is a bloody wanker.”

Shae let out a short laugh that was sort of like a bark. “He’s my brother.”

Tyrion winced. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” Shae looked at him. “He’s an asshole. I apologise.”

Tyrion tried to shrug it off. “It’s fine. I’ve had plenty of experience with asshole brothers.” Then he paused, remembering her question. “Oh, and France? It’s all right. Cold.”

“Well, it is winter.” Shae was giving him a look. Tyrion felt infinitely sorry for himself in that moment. He understood that look. He wouldn’t hang out with himself either, right now, given the choice. 

“But I have to say,” he added, conceding the point, “you can’t beat French wine.”

 

 

**Cersei**

_I hate French wine_ , she thought coldly.

Yet there was an entire wall at this particular wine shop devoted to it. She _really_ disliked it, with an intense, intelligent passion, which was the way she disliked everything. Cersei never hated without reason, although she’d been known to hate first and find reasons later. But as a wine connoisseur, she rather thought she had plenty of reason to hate French wine. Eyeing a bottle of AOC red, she shuddered at the mere thought of the dry taste of red on her tongue, the lack of substantial body—and yet here before her stretched endless rows of Beaujolais, merlot, cabernet sauvignon. _One would think that at such a posh wine shop there would be greater variety._ With irritation, Cersei adjusted her shopping basket on her arm and moved down to the next wall, clicking along briskly in her suede Brian Atwood boots.

South American reds, sorted by country—yes, this was better. Much, _much_ better. She stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling rack as if coming home, and let out a light sigh of relief. She needed this. Wine was the only thing that was going to get her through this Christmas, Cersei could tell that much already.

She was still uncertain as to her holiday plans. In a few days’ time, Joffrey would be off to the Caribbean with several of his school chums—Cersei still wasn’t sure if she was happy or sad about that. Still, her sweet Tommen and Myrcella would be home, and for them she would probably have to attend the Lannister family Christmas at Aunt Genna’s. The thought alone made her want to buy the entire contents of this shop.

Then there was the fact that every time Cersei turned on the telly or went into a shop, she was forced to hear that song by her idiotic ex. She had been slapped with more images of his fat face in the few weeks than she had been in the last five years, and it was really ruining her month.

Cersei sighed for a moment and let herself slip into nostalgia, thinking of how things had been. Whenever she thought of the two of them together she thought of their famous Vogue cover: her, Cersei, looking like a golden ’80s angel, and Robert looking like an absolute god. That was how the world would remember their marriage, and sometimes she could even sugarcoat it herself, if she pretended that things had never been more than surface deep. It was true that Robert had been _so_ handsome and charismatic when they’d met. She’d gotten pregnant and had been so proud of herself for snaring him—she’d gotten a ring, proving to her father and _everyone_ that she wasn’t just another groupie. And so for two blissful years, Cersei had it all.

But rock stars cheated, and Robert was hardly an exception. After Cersei first discovered it, things changed. Even by rock star standards, their fights took destructive to a new level. It had been absolutely awful, but somehow walking away had made Cersei feel even worse, realising just how many years of her life and beauty she had lost to Robert, and what it had done to her children to witness that sort of toxic relationship.

Still, Cersei wasn’t going to pretend that she wasn’t overjoyed to be clear of that marriage. Now, though, she faced the prospect of a mostly lonely holiday season. Wine would help her through… wine _never_ failed her. She studied the Argentina reds with the concentration of an expert. A 2009 Shiraz— _yes_ —a deep burgundy pinot, _yes please_ —and certainly, a Chilean red, _why not_? She filled her shopping basket with grim satisfaction, relishing the clunking sounds of the bottles knocking together and hoisting the increasingly heavy basket with determined strength.

She had just approached the counter to have her purchases rung up when over the loudspeaker when she caught the familiar strains of the beginning of Robert’s song. No. _It can’t be._ Fuck. It was.

_Pour some Christmas on me… come on and light it up…_

Cersei gritted her teeth, unconsciously clicking her long red nails on the counter as her cashier rang her platinum card.

“Do you have a rewards card?” the cashier said in a nasal, sing-songy sort of voice. She was wearing a woolly turtleneck under her smock and didn’t look altogether _there_.

Cersei levelled her a glance. “Do I _look_ like I have a rewards card?” she asked spikily, and the woman visibly shrank back. Cersei made a point to rotate her custom between several wine-shops, as there was no point in being known as overly fond of her wine. Even a large city like London, people talked.

Having successfully reduced the cashier to fearful silence, Cersei slung her carrier bag over her shoulder with the delicacy of a woman handling a baby and walked out of the shop. But her luck must have been absolutely terrible that day, because as she exited and turned left, she caught sight of a very familiar redhead. _Catelyn Stark._

This truly had been the day from hell. But it was too late to turn around, walk the other way, and pretend she hadn’t noticed her old frenemy and her irritating children. Cersei would never visibly show defeat in such a way. So instead she pulled back her shoulders in her shearling MaxMara coat, stood tall, and approached.

“Oh, Catelyn!” she said in a clarion voice, stopping short and pasting on a transparent air of surprise. “Imagine meeting you here!”

Catelyn Stark paused on the pavement, giving Cersei a neutral look and a nod. “Hello, Cersei. It’s been a while.”

She and Catelyn had known each other at university, through their respective boyfriends. But it would have been an understatement to say that the two women had nothing in common. Besides, Cersei hadn’t seen Catelyn in ages, not since she and Robert had gotten divorced and then probably a long time before that. She’d never cared for Catelyn’s husband, at any rate—he was too loyal, too trusting. Like a dog. Combine that with Catelyn’s red hair (hadn’t she gotten teased for that at school? Cersei was always so glad to be born a natural blonde) and Cersei had always had the strange connotation of Irish setters when it came to Catelyn Stark and her brood. Outdoorsy, rough around the edges, and utterly unpleasant.

“Yes, it has, hasn’t it?” she said, barely forcing any warmth into her voice. Next to Catelyn were her two daughters—one, Sansa, was a very pretty redhead who somehow had thought that she deserved to date and then chuck Cersei’s son, Joffrey. Cersei regarded her coldly. If that girl thought she could do any better than Joffrey, then she was stupider than she looked. The other daughter, whose name Cersei couldn’t remember, had hair as short as a boy’s and looked like a wild animal.

“Hello, Sansa,” she said to the older girl, because she knew she had to. Sansa looked at her with a slightly embarrassed expression and responded in a quiet voice, “Hi, Mrs Lannister.”

“What are you all doing?” Cersei continued, bored by the conversation even as she was having it.

“Oh,” said Catelyn, nodding briefly, “just some last minute holiday shopping. The family is all coming up to the home for Christmas, so there won’t be much time for buying presents after this. You know how it is.”

Cersei did not know. She always made time for shopping. Not that shopping for her children was particularly difficult; Joffrey always just wanted money, Tommen’s room was overflowing with soft toys, mainly various types of cats, and Myrcella loved books. Cersei had finished her Christmas shopping ages ago, however; it wasn’t as if she had many people to buy for.

“And you?” Catelyn added, looking rather as if she, too, would prefer not be having this conversation.

Cersei eyed the other woman with veiled distaste. Catelyn Stark looked good, Cersei would grant her that. Her hair was just as thick and red as it had been when they’d gone to school together, and she was stylishly dressed (if a bit on the conservative side). Catelyn was Jaime’s superior at the university, Cersei remembered. She thought of her brother, whom she barely saw these days, and who Catelyn probably crossed paths with on a daily basis. The thought made her dislike Catelyn even more.

She pulled her muffler more tightly around her neck with one cashmere-gloved hand.

“Just buying some last minute holiday gifts as well,” she said airily. The carrier bag full of wine was extremely heavy in her other hand, but she wasn’t going to feel ashamed. It wasn’t lying either; it was only that she had been buying gifts for _herself_. Specifically, twelve bottles of excellent vintage’s worth of gifts for herself.

All three Stark women stared at her with identical blank expressions on their faces. Suppressing the urge to roll her eyes, Cersei instead pasted on an insincere smile. “Well, I’d better be off,” she said with false gaiety. “Happy Christmas!” 

She turned on her heel and stalked off in the other direction, raking her eyes up and down the street to hail a cab. _Thank God that’s done with._ Cersei had a bottle (or three) of wine to open, and one very irritating day to put behind her.

 

 

**Sansa**

“Are you all right, dear?” Catelyn said to her as they rounded the corner onto Oxford Street into the crush of people. All of them had been oddly silent after leaving Cersei Lannister behind them. It had clearly been a jarring experience for everyone.

Sansa nodded, putting thoughts of Mrs Lannister and her awful son firmly out of her mind. That was all in the past now. “I’m fine, Mum.” She took a deep breath, then glanced back over her shoulder to the side street they’d just come down. “I saw a shop back there that I’d like to stop into. Shall we do our shopping, and then meet in an hour for cocoa?”

“All right then, half-four? I’ll be in Selfridges if either of you want to join me.” Catelyn checked her watch, and then headed briskly up the high street. Looking murderous, Arya trailed along with Sansa, her expression suggesting that she’d rather be doing anything but shopping.

They went into the boutique and almost immediately parted ways. Sansa cast a wary eye sideways at her little sister, who wandered around the shop looking supremely bored. Arya’s hair, now half-tucked back under a black knit cap, was different from the last time Sansa’d seen her. After chopping her hair to her chin, she had dyed the ends blood red. “Tully red,” Arya had explained with a devilish grin when Sansa had seen her new look for the first time. “I’m just paying homage to our Scottish heritage.”

Sansa had looked dubiously at their mum, but apparently Catelyn was choosing to pick her battles on this one and hadn’t said anything. Dad hadn’t looked particularly keen on Arya’s new hair either, but since everyone knew that Mum was the one with veto power in the Stark household, he’d also held his tongue.

Now Sansa’s little sister walked over to where Sansa stood contemplating a display of cashmere jumpers, scoffing as she trailed a hand over the soft rows of fabric. “What, shopping for Dany and Robb? Why don’t you just get them cheesy matching outfits and be done with it?”

“ _Arya_ ,” Sansa said, with a twinge of real irritation. “I thought you like Dany.”

“I do!” Arya said. “She’s quite cool, actually. Couples are just stupid. _I’ve_ already gotten them presents—proper ones.”

“Oh, you have?” Sansa turned to her sister, folding her arms over her chest. “Something better than some perfectly nice clothes?”

Arya nodded, looking satisfied with herself. “Yeah. I’ve made mix tapes for Jon and Robb both, and I’m doing this art project for Dany. It’s using photos from the wedding, and Jon is helping me.” Arya was inordinately artsy; all of her school notebooks and nearly every surface of her room were covered in doodles in pencil or Sharpie. “And Gendry’s helping me with the tapes,” Arya continued, face lighting up; she was apparently thrilled to have found a topic of conversation that wasn’t concerned with shopping. “It’s always hard to find new bands that Jon hasn’t heard of! But Gendry knows all the best ones.”

“Gendry’s your mate from school, yeah?” Sansa said a bit absently, turning and moving on to the next rack.

“Yeah, that’s right.” Arya trailed her. “We’ll probably hang out over the holidays. He lives in the village with his mum, but he says it’ll be right boring and he’d love to come up to Winterfell.”

Sansa glanced sideways at her little sister. “Is that so? Should I expect to be seeing a lot more of him, then?”

Arya paused, narrowing her eyes, and then scowled eloquently at the suggestion in Sansa’s tone. “Oh, come _off_ it, Sansa. We’re only mates.”

Sansa shrugged delicately, not wanting to argue, and moved away. She paused by the display of jewellery, where a pendant on a delicate golden chain caught her attention. Threading it through her fingers, Sansa held it up for a closer look. _This would look beautiful on Margaery_ , she thought, and then froze. _But I technically already gave Margaery Christmas presents, didn’t I, for Secret Santa? Wouldn’t it be strange to get her something else too?_

Sansa had spent an awful lot of time since leaving university for the holidays thinking around the topic of her best friend. She and Margaery had only texted briefly since they’d said their unexpected goodbyes for the holidays, silly stuff—and neither she nor Margaery had broached the topic of their kiss. That’s right—their _kiss_.

Sansa had to swallow hard to get past the scary, nervous feeling that swam up her spine at the very thought. She put a hand of the jewelry table, trying to calm down. _Oh, God._ It had been three days and she was still processing.

She’d always known Margaery was bi, but…she’d never even dreamed that her glamorous older best friend could possibly be into _her_. Margaery had always been talking about how this girl was fit and how that bloke could totally get it, but whenever she’d pressed Sansa to join in, Sansa had only stammered and blushed. The truth was that Sansa hadn’t had a single crush lasting more than a few weeks since she’d broken things off with Joff just before her first year of university.

Now Sansa had spent three solid days combing over memories of all the things she and her best friend had ever done together. There were all those Audrey Hepburn and Hitchcock films they’d watched side by side curled up on Margaery’s rose-printed duvet, and how Sansa had fallen asleep more than once with her head on Margaery’s lap, lulled by the comforting feeling of Margaery stroking her hair. Tea at Cocomaya and Maison Bertaux after cycling around and reading poetry together all day in Hyde Park. “Educational” trips to places like the Tate Modern and the Design Museum, as well as equally educational outings to the coolest underground clubs in the city where Marg’s brother was DJ’ing for the night.

Then there was the way that Margaery was always fussing over Sansa, rolling her eyes over how “gorgeous” Sansa was, always insisting on dressing her, doing her hair, doing her makeup. Margaery was hilarious, and a bit crazy. When she did things like cry, “No! Your glasses are _so_ hot!” when Sansa suggested the possibility of just switching completely over to contacts because she was tired of occasionally wearing her thick black frames, Sansa just accepted it as one of Margaery’s quirks. Likewise with Margaery’s tendency to get extremely handsy when she’d had some to drink and start making out with Sansa’s neck. Sansa had always just thought that was normal friend behaviour. Right? It was, wasn’t it?

But did all that mean that Margaery, somewhere along the line, had developed even deeper feelings for _Sansa_? It made Sansa blush, and hard. _She knows everything about me… all the weird, really embarrassing things! She knows that I wear granny knickers sometimes, for God’s sake, and that I cry about old people looking sad and alone in adverts. And she still wanted to kiss me?_ The thought was enough to make her stand still right there in the shop, smiling dazedly into space.

Yes, why hadn’t Sansa thought that that was odd for an extrovert like Margaery to be content to spend all her time with Sansa, whose idea of a good time was drinking tea and watching two Keira Knightley films in a row? Why hadn’t she ever thought twice about the way that _she_ felt in return, every time Margaery tucked a piece of hair behind Sansa’s ear and smiled at her for just a moment longer than normal? _Has she really been keen on me this entire time and I just never noticed? Could it be that I, Sansa Stark, have been completely and totally clueless?_

“Hello? Earth to Sansa!” The sound of Arya’s sharp inquisitive voice startled Sansa out of her thoughts. She hastily put down the necklace she was holding and looked up at her sister, who was standing somewhat accusingly in front of her. “Who are you thinking about, then?”

“What? I’m not thinking about—” Sansa paused to take a deep breath, trying to compose herself. “I’m not thinking about anyone.”

Arya gave her an amused look. “Right. I’ve seen enough of you having crushes to know when you’re thinking about someone. Mooning like that around all through high school. So who is it this time… some ‘ _gorgeous_ ’ upperclassman with giant muscles and a posh accent?”

Sansa flushed. _Not exactly… but you are half right._

“Never mind. I’m just… Well. Anyway. Are you finished?” she said, trying to sound business-like.

Arya gave her a pointed look. “Obviously.” 

Sansa gathered up her purchases with an air of competence that she didn’t feel, and walked over to the till. “Well,” she said brightly, trying very hard not to think about Margaery, “let’s go meet Mum, then.”

 

 

**Jon**

“…so I went up to check on Mum and lo and behold, Gilly had already charmed the pants off her too!” Sam Tarly exclaimed, excitedly typing away at his laptop. “I mean, the girl’s practically got magic powers of persuasion, I’ve never seen anything like it!”

How Sam could possibly handle drafting of the second issue of _The Night’s Watch_ and launching into the endless stream of activities he and his new girlfriend Gilly had planned for the holiday season was a mystery to Jon—and if that weren’t enough, Jon’s best friend was managing to do it all while editing the third and final draft of their comic book’s first issue. But Jon trusted his friend’s writing abilities, so he just nodded and half-listened, formatting his own panels as he sat opposite the sticker-covered body of Sam’s Macbook Pro.

Robb had used to laugh and call them DJs whenever he saw them like that, bent identically over their laptop screens with music blaring in their ears (soft grunge for Jon and house music for Sam), both hard at work on the comic book series they’d envisioned together as teenagers. It had only taken one night of drinking beer and quoting _Superbad_ in Sam’s new flat last year to convince Jon to pursue their old idea again, with Sam writing the storylines and Jon doing all the art panels.

Jon couldn’t say that he regretted his decision, even if it did mean working for free on time that could’ve been used on paying commissions. A bunch of forlorn, tormented men and bastards in charge of the protection of their homeland had been a concept too enticing for him to resist. The medieval setting and cast of misfits was typical Sam as well, seeing as he was the most ridiculous fan of medieval fiction that Jon had ever met (and Jon didn’t need the endless stacks of _Lord of the Rings_ and _King Arthur_ lining the interior of his best friend’s flatto tell him so). Sam had been writing (and unsuccessfully badgering Jon to read) dictionary-length fantasy novels since they were ten, so with that much practice it wasn’t surprising that his current stuff was actually really good.

“… so they eventually went shopping without me, and they had such a good time that they apparently couldn’t even stuff all the things they bought in the car,” Sam continued, blissfully unaware that Jon wasn’t entirely listening. He chuckled softly, stroking the downy moustache that dressed his upper lip. They were curled up on the sofa in Sam’s living room, which had a warm cosy book-filled, bookish tranquil atmosphere sort of feeling; a silver collector’s edition figurine of Gandalf presided from the mantelpiece, as if blessing all the proceedings. “Hope some of those pressies are for me! Although, I dunno… Mum always gives me underpants. Maybe she convinced Gilly to do the same. Can you imagine that, double underpants for Christmas? Romantic, huh?” Then Sam said something that made Jon physically snap his head around and jump to attention.

“So, how’s your Dany dilemma?”

“Ha—what?” All right, he was listening. But Jon refused to give Sam the satisfaction of a more shocked response. He let out a humourless laugh, pulling his knees up to his chest to sit taller amid the sofa cushions. “Hell, Sam, way to change the subject.”

“I knew that would get your attention!” Sam crowed, and Jon stubbornly fixed his eyes on his laptop and refused to look up. He knew without having to look that his best friend would be grinning in painful triumph too, gloating. “You haven’t done jack shit, have you?”

 _Way to put it in words, Sam._ “No, I haven’t. And I plan to keep it that way,” Jon said curtly, and concentrated on layering one of the final panels of his comic precisely a quarter of an inch away from its previous position.

There was a snort in response from Sam’s end of the sofa. “…says the bloke who secretly doesn’t.”

This was getting out of hand. Frustrated, Jon minimised Adobe Illustrator and looked over at Sam. “Look, at this point, it’s best you just shut up about it, all right? What d’you want me to do, anyway? She’s just married my cousin, for Chrissakes.”

“And he thinks you hate her, which you don’t,” Sam said, sighing. He stroked his chubby chin pensively. “Methinks the only way to improve this situation is tell her that you don’t hate her.”

Jon stared at him blankly. “What? … Why?”

“Because that way you’ll clear the air, and be able to actually have a decent relationship with the two of them. Right now it’s all negativity between you and her, when really,” Sam raised both eyebrows with a look of tragic irony, “it should be the opposite.”

Jon shook his head in frustration. “Yeah, well. That’ll warrant my explaining to her precisely _why_ I don’t hate her.” The thought was nearly unbearable; he physically crumpled up his face into a scowl and shuddered. “Then I’ll have to come out with why I’ve always treated her like I have. And that’s the bit I can’t do, you see?”

He shook his head almost angrily at his best friend, but it wasn’t as if the thought of confessing his feelings had never crossed his mind. It had—numerous times, and quite painfully too. Jon couldn’t pretend that he didn’t notice the way Dany’s eyes went soft with hurt whenever he shied away from a conversation with her, or gave abrupt one-word replies to her gentle, open-ended questions. The only thing that soldiered him on was the image Jon had constructed of Robb’s face the way it would look if Robb were ever to discover that his own cousin fancied his wife. He closed his eyes for a moment, the taste of rust rising in his mouth.

It wasn’t just Robb, either. It was so much more than that. It was Robb, and Ned, and Catelyn, and the rest of the family… Jon knew that if he were to do _anything_ regarding Dany, they’d turn their backs on him for sure. He couldn’t give up the family that he felt he only had a tentative grip on, for a woman whom he had no claim toward or hope to deserve, anyway. Who did he think he was, trying to do that? Who had ever given him the right?

To his surprise, Sam closed his laptop, folded his hands on top of it, and fixed Jon with a sad smile. Right then and there, Jon knew Sam was serious – nothing _ever_ stopped Sam from writing when he was on a roll; even Gilly couldn’t coax him off a particular story or script once he’d gotten started.

“Tell you what, mate. When I’m on holiday with Gilly for New Year’s, I’ll ring you and talk you through it. You can talk to Dany then—about everything.”

At this, Jon actually felt a twinge of panic. “Sam—have you gone mad? That’s barely a month! And why do I have to explain everything come bloody _New Year’s_?”

“Because it’s a fresh bleedin’ start!” Sam exclaimed, shaking his head. “And you don’t want this to plague you for the entirety of next year and the next and God knows when.” He lowered his voice. “In case you hadn’t realised, Jon, this isn’t a problem that’s going to be going away. They’re married, she’s part of your family, and you’re going to have to deal with it sooner or later.”

“I was getting better at dealing with it,” Jon replied, immediately regretting that his voice sounded significantly weaker as he said it.

“Yeah? Since when?”

Predictably, Jon could find nothing to say reply. _I should’ve known better than to tell Sam—much less anyone_ , he thought, knowing full well that Sam was the only person he could really trust with these kinds of things. Sam had patted Jon’s back sympathetically after Jon had first confessed, knowing that his feelings for Dany would eat him up from the inside out if he didn’t get to tell _somebody._ And Sam had been so good about the advice, lending a sympathetic ear and never pushing Jon to do anything outside of his very narrow comfort zone—until now.

“She needs to know, Jon,” Sam said bluntly, gazing at Jon intently. He looked infinitely sage, and patient, kind, but also rather sad, as if he understood that this was how things were, and that was just how the world worked. “It’d be unfair to her—and to Robb too—if you keep this all to yourself and continue to act like an idiot. No offense, mate.”

It was a sad day indeed when Jon’s most fantasy-obsessed friend was more capable of living in the real adult world than Jon was. Sam, of course, couldn’t judge. Sam was living his happy ending now, with his new girlfriend. Regardless, it was clear that there was no way Jon was winning at this argument.

Sighing heavily, not agreeing to anything, he raised his arms in the air slightly in defeat. Then he settled back onto the sofa to continue his work.

 

 

**Jaime**

Cersei rang him just as he was leaving the university. Jaime eyed his mobile with hesitation, the way he always did whenever his sister’s name flashed on the screen. But he stepped onto a less busy corner of the pavement and took the call.

“Jaime,” his sister’s voice said in his ear. “You should come over,” she said plaintively. “The children haven’t come home from school yet… and I miss you.”

He closed his eyes briefly, and watched the people going by. London was busy at this hour, full of people rushing home from work. People with homes to go to, families waiting for them. People who weren’t like Jaime.

Once, Jaime would have come running to Cersei’s side, but now he had forced himself to stay away for so long that he couldn’t come even if he wanted to. “I can’t, Cersei,” he said, keeping his voice calm and even. “I have a lot to do. I’m sorry.”

He heard her sigh on the other line. _She must be drinking._ His sister only grew maudlin and sentimental when she was drinking. “But, Jaime—”

“I’ll see you at Christmas,” he promised hastily, and hung up. He threw his mobile in his jacket pocket and hastened to catch the Tube, which was fully packed at this hour. On the platform, he stood dully and watched the people move around him, all his thoughts catching up to him at once. His head throbbed. His sister’s voice had punctured his good cheer from the last day of lectures as neatly as a pin pricking a balloon.

How had his life ended up this way? Jaime had had it all, once. Not that things had ever been easy in his family, not with their tyrannical father. But he’d been so happy with both his siblings. He and Tyrion had been good friends. Tyrion was the one who’d told him stories, read to Jaime from the storybooks even though Jaime was older. And Jaime had been so perfectly, beautifully in love with his sister.

Being in love with Cersei was so easy, and beautiful, and it had felt like the only thing he could ever want. Then everything changed.

They’d gone away to school, and she’d started sleeping with other men. It made Jaime furious, heartbroken. They got into giant rows about it. “I can’t just sleep with you only, Jaime!” Cersei was incensed. “It’s not right. I have to live my life, you know. I can’t keep fucking you.” It broke his heart. To Jaime, it was simple. He loved her. He only wanted to be with her. He wanted to get married.

The train zoomed by, and Jaime pushed through the rush-hour crowd and got on.

But Cersei had kept saying that it couldn’t be that way between them, and that he was stupid to think it could be. And maybe Jaime was. He wasn’t smart like Tyrion; he’d always been a little stupid about things. He’d always been a little stupid when it came to Cersei.

Anyway, she’d gone off and married that rock star, and Jaime had gotten the bones of his right hand shattered in three places during his championship rugby game in Year 2 of university. Just like that, the only two things he’d ever loved, ever been _really_ good at doing, were gone.

He’d dropped out and been depressed for nearly six months until Tyrion had come round and forced him to snap out of it. He’d brought books for Jaime to read, and scoffed at Jaime when Jaime complained that they were too hard, dull, and boring. Finally Jaime buckled down, read the books, and realized that the books were interesting. They were about heroes, and Jaime suddenly saw them, and the idea of books in general, in a completely different light.

He’d re-enrolled in school with a new emphasis of study and a new feeling of determination. Tywin had never quite looked at him the same, although Jaime had been able to head him off with some vague noises about literature being a common pre-law major. It wasn’t until Jaime had applied for his postgraduate degree, earning a full scholarship, that Tywin realised that Jaime didn’t want to inherit the Lannister holdings, after all.

The train stopped, and Jaime got off at King’s Cross station.

At age nineteen, Jaime would have laughed outright at anyone who told him that he’d one day become one of the suited prigs whose droning lectures had served as Jaime’s lullabies while he dozed off in their seminars. But a lot certainly had changed since Jaime’s own days at university. Ever since he’d lost Cersei and rugby, just like that, Jaime had found new meaning in the annals of heroic literature (and he took particular pride in being the kind of lecturer whose seminars could never be described as _droning_ ).

At least in books, heroes stood for something. They accomplished things. Substantial things. Whereas nowadays, nothing was ever that clearly cut, nor suited for any form of greater purpose above the mundane requirements of everyday life. Jaime needed heroes because he knew perfectly well that nothing approximating the hero quest existed in real life.

He would be lying, though, if he said he didn’t still imagine the loves of the heroes’ lives, the Penelopes and the Brunhildas waiting for the heroes with patience, with Cersei’s face. But he was getting better at dealing with it: he could ignore it, and get past it. It had been almost ten years since they’d been together, after all. It no longer hurt the way it used to. 

The only important thing in his life right now was his job. When Jaime had been made lecturer at Queenscrown College four years ago and senior lecturer last February, he’d celebrated those accomplishments with Tyrion. His entire life now, he owed in some way to his brother. But now his brother wasn’t calling him back, and Jaime had the uneasy feeling that for someone who appeared to have it all, he actually had… nothing.

 

 

**Stannis**

It was perhaps the most disorderly Stannis’ kitchen had ever been. Flour and sugar canisters sat stranded on the counter; the air smelt of cinnamon sticks and vanilla extract; and sprinkles, sweets, and baking trays lined every available surface. Dean Martin was singing Christmas songs on the stereo at a soft volume, and the sunshine from the snowy day outside lit the kitchen in a clean white glow.

There was a vein gently throbbing in Stannis’s head at the sight of such messiness, and he was fighting every urge to spring forward and start clearing things up. But even Stannis couldn’t deny that his home had been transformed into a postcard display of holiday cheer. As Davos and Shireen put the finishing touches on a batch of gingerbread at the kitchen table, he watched with some reserve from the espresso machine and nursed his mug of tea.

“Now you roll out the biscuit dough, like this,” Davos instructed. Straightening her apron, Shireen stood alongside him, brandishing her own floury rolling pin. “Like this?” she asked tentatively, extending her arms and looking up at Davos for guidance. She wore a turquoise-and-silver striped jumper, and her hair was in two braids.

“That’s it, girl! You’ve got it.” Davos’ face creased in a smile, Scottish brogue sounding even stronger than usual with his approval. He looked a perfect father, standing there in his blue and white apron over a fisherman’s jumper, and seemed so comfortable with Shireen that it put Stannis at ease. _It shouldn’t be surprising_ , Stannis reflected. Davos had five children of his own after all, and Davos and Shireen had an easy friendship forged out of the tense and awkward dinners Davos had attended in the aftermath of Selyse’s death.

The first time Davos and Shireen met, Shireen, who’d scarcely said a word since her mother’s passing, had abruptly asked Davos, “Why do you talk like that?” Mortified, Stannis had been about to scold his daughter for her rudeness when Davos chuckled. “Because I’m from Scotland, lass.” “Where’s that?” Shireen said, real curiosity warming her eyes, and Davos had explained all about the division of the United Kingdom with a gravity that belied how most adults would address a nine-year-old little girl. Shireen in her turn had been quite interested, and listened attentively. The two had been fast friends ever since.

Her face creased with pleasure at her success at rolling out the gingerbread dough, Stannis’ daughter tilted her head to look at him. “Daddy, do you want to help make the biscuits?”

“No, thank you. I don’t like gingerbread,” Stannis said coolly, adjusting where he stood against the counter. Both Davos and Shireen turned to look at him, with nearly identical looks of slightly hurt, strained patience on their faces.

“I prefer peppermint chocolate crinkles,” he continued. He didn’t know why they were looking at him like that. “I have the recipe. I can make them while you make your gingerbread.” Shireen started beaming, and Davos let out a wry little laugh and turned back to their work. Stannis couldn’t help but smile back at both of them. They were being awfully sensitive about their biscuits, all told.

When the two had finished rolling out all the dough, Shireen went to the bathroom to wash her hands and Davos came over to Stannis, flipping on the hot water tap in the kitchen sink. Stannis sipped his tea, lowering his eyes to watch Davos clean his hands. Davos was a fisherman’s son from Scotland, and he didn’t wash his hands so much as scour them, scrubbing the soap with quick precision everywhere, even under the nails. It was slightly hypnotic, and one could imagine him cleaning his hands in such a way after a day spent gutting fish, trying to get every hint of the smell out. Stannis liked that he took so much care with such a simple task. It showed an orderly mind, and that Davos took care with much larger things, too.

“All right, Stannis?” Davos said after a moment, glancing up at him. Stannis was slightly startled out of his thoughts. “I know it’s your first Christmas… without her.”

Stannis nodded, categorically avoiding thinking about his wife. That way, he knew, it hurt less. “Yes. But we’re doing well.”

“She adores ye,” Davos said, with a short and meaningful nod, and it gave Stannis pause. Davos meant Stannis’ daughter, of course, for whom this entire idyllic afternoon had been conceived. Davos wasn’t one to mince his words, and his way of knowing exactly what Stannis was thinking was almost uncanny.

“We never used to do this,” Stannis said after a moment, “celebrate the holidays this way with the baking and the music. Not even when Selyse was… when she was here.” Holidays with Selyse had always been more of an exercise in prayer than in joy, especially after her conversion. She had criticised the secular aspects of Christmas as entirely frivolous. Even Stannis, who frowned on the commercialization of most holidays as an excuse for rampant consumerism, found his wife’s views a bit extreme. It had been a source of conflict before Selyse’s diagnosis. “Anyhow, thank you for coming, Davos. It truly has made Shireen happy.”

When Davos smiled, his eyes crinkled up. He nodded, accepting Stannis’s words without making a show of it. “Well, I’m chuffed to be here, too, Stannis.”

Shireen returned, beaming and extending her clean hands for inspection, and both Davos and Stannis turned to look. When Shireen’s hands had passed review, Davos and Shireen began to punch the flattened dough into shapes, drawing from the giant sack of biscuit cutters Davos had brought. “Daddy?” Shireen offered, smiling and extending a cutter, and even Stannis had to relent, cutting out a gingerbread snowman and transferring it to the wax paper-lined baking tray.

They had made three trays of gingerbread reindeer, men, women, Christmas trees, stars, and chickens (“We just sort of keep all the holidays together,” Davos explained, in regard to the biscuit cutters) and were readying them for the oven when Stannis realised that they didn’t have any peppermint sweets for the biscuits he wanted to prepare next. How could he have overlooked something so important?

It only took Stannis ten minutes to nip down to the newsagent on the corner. While there, he picked up some milk and cocoa mix, too; Shireen would like that, and it seemed like it would go well with Christmas biscuits. Coming back to the house, he opened the door quietly out of habit, and paused when he heard voices issuing from the kitchen.

“Marya likes to make gingerbread houses every year,” Davos was saying. Marya was his wife. “But the boys, they were always too clumsy to do it nicely enough. Every year they’d make Marya tear her hair out, never putting the sweets on properly, knocking the walls over, and just generally making a muck of it.”

Stannis could hear the sound of Shireen’s giggles. He paused unwinding his scarf and stood very still, trying to hear better.

“One year she almost cried when she got home from work late and they’d already started decorating with a pirate theme, all skulls and crossbones in hideous black liquorice and boiled sweets. It was the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen, and that’s sayin’ a lot. Finally,” Davos went on, “Mar just gave up on it all together. Now she does her own beautiful gingerbread house, and the boys can make pirate ships, or castles, or whatever they please.”

“Well, I always wanted a brother,” Shireen said, sounding somewhat wistful. “Making a pirate ship out of gingerbread sounds awfully fun.”

That hurt. Stannis closed his eyes for a moment, remembering. After Shireen was born, Selyse had wanted to keep going, to try for more children. But it had been hell getting her pregnant the first time, and Stannis had been too worn out to go through all that again—and by the time Selyse brought up the topic again, they hadn’t been sleeping together any more.

At times, Stannis were perfectly honest with himself, he still felt guilty. Perhaps if he hadn’t said no, then Shireen might have a sibling now, and it wouldn’t just be the two of them alone together.

“Oh, I don’t think you do,” Davos’s voice said from the kitchen. He made a mock-shuddering sound. “Nasty little creatures, boys are, messy and dirty. You’re better off without one in the house, take my word! And I’ve got five!”

In the kitchen, Shireen was giggling. “That’s funny,” she said. “Not all boys are messy, though. Rickon—that is, my friend’s not.” She paused. “And Daddy’s not messy at all.”

“That’s true, little lass. Your father is very neat.”

“Yes, Daddy is. He’s _so_ neat. He always scolds me for making messes. And I have to make my bed every morning, otherwise he gets cross.” Shireen paused to hum along to the opening bars of ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ as it played over the stereo, before going on so matter-of-factly that her next words hardly seemed to matter to her. “Daddy’s very happy you’re here, you know.”

In the hallway, Stannis froze. He heard Davos chuckle, a deep sound that reverberated through the kitchen. “Oh, is that so?”

“Yes.” Shireen paused and hummed a bit more, then she laughed. “It is.”

“And why do you say that?” Davos’ voice was mild, but there was something pointed in it, too. Curiosity, maybe? Intrigue?

From the kitchen Stannis’s daughter gave a little sigh. Stannis was in no way prepared for, or expecting to hear, what she said next. 

“Because you make Daddy happy.”

 

 

**Jon**

When Robb’s battered old Volkswagen finally pulled up in Winterfell’s yard, Jon peeled himself off the front room sofa with a feeling of dread collecting in his stomach. He’d been idly trying to sketch on his tablet the entire afternoon, waiting, but hadn’t succeeded in making more than rough sketches and nothing that he could possibly use. It was difficult to concentrate when the entire house had been awaiting Robb and Dany’s arrival with bated breath, waiting for it as the main event of the day.

He hung back as everyone else crowded into the foyer to greet the arriving couple, and a clamour of voices went up as the front door swung open. “Merry Christmas!” Robb exclaimed loudly, his bearded face looking absolutely ecstatic, and Dany’s voice chorused the same, although Jon couldn’t see her from the Stark heads towering around the couple. Then the family parted slightly and Jon saw Dany and Robb, wreathed in smiles as they hauled their suitcases up the front steps, beaming just as happily as if they were still newlyweds.

Robb and Dany made their way down the receiving line of family, setting down their snow-dusted suitcases in the foyer and shucking off their jackets. “We had a hell of a time making it down the A40,” he heard Robb explaining boisterously to Catelyn, grinning. Jon’s mind sort of faded to white as he tried not to be conspicuous. Suddenly his cousin emerged from the press of siblings to appear before Jon. “Hello, mate,” Robb said, giving Jon a tight one-armed hug. “Long time no see, eh?”

“Long time,” he replied, returning Robb’s embrace with equal fervor. He looked down at his hands. Then, behind Robb—there she was. “Hi Jon,” she said, breathlessly, smiling. She leaned up to give him a quick hug, and he caught a whiff of her perfume or shampoo. She smelled incredibly like coconut oil—and was just as beautiful as she’d been the last time that he’d seen her, which had been a spectacularly awkward dinner at her and Robb’s flat in London last month.

“Hi, Dany,” he managed after a moment, heart thudding in his chest. Time seemed to slow, just for that moment.

But she had already half-turned away for Sansa’s waiting hug. He didn’t even know if she’d heard his response. 

* * *

 

Dinner that night was almost as painful as that last awkward dinner, though for different reasons. Ned had cooked, and everyone sat around laughing at some of Robb’s breathless stories about his medical foundation training. He was in insanely good spirits, and his blue eyes lit with pleasure with every little detail he noticed about Winterfell, saying how brilliant it was to be home. Jon observed him mutely, wondering at his cousin’s natural good humour. They’d used to balance one another out perfectly growing up—Robb the natural optimist, Jon the natural pessimist. But Robb’s cheerfulness had never quite made Jon feel quite so… miserable before, though.

“And, Dany,” Ned said, leaning forward from the head of the table after Robb had finally stopped outlining the many quirks of his training surgeon, Dr Bolton, “how’s the paramedic life treating you?”

Dany smiled. “It’s quite good, Ned, thank you.”

Ned smiled evenly and leaned forward. Jon could tell that he was genuinely curious. “How long has it been, now?”

When Robb had first met Dany, she’d been working in a coffee shop. She didn’t seem offended by Ned’s questioning about her job, though, which was good. Ned was only trying to probe out the facts; Ned always liked to have the facts, and he judged people on the integrity of their characters, not their occupations. Besides that, it was abundantly clear that Ned liked Dany. _Everyone likes Dany_ , Jon thought with a little twinge.

“About fourteen months, now,” Dany answered.

“And you’re enjoying the work?”

“As much as anyone can, yes,” Dany said, with a pleasant half note of a laugh. She took a bite of salmon, the silver bangles on her wrist clattering gently as she did so. “It’s a bit intense, but that’s the nature of it.”

“Yes, that’s what Robb tells me. I understand that not a lot of paramedics stay in it for life.” Ned looked at Dany inquisitively. “There’s a high burn-out rate.”

“ _Dad_ ,” said Sansa pointedly, giving him a look. She had fielded plenty of job-related inquisitions from Ned herself, and no doubt felt sympathy for her sister-in-law when put in the same situation.

Ned furrowed his brow. “Now, I’m not trying to pass any judgments; I’m only curious. The medical profession is an excellent one.”

Jon tried not to look too interested as he picked at his almond-crusted green beans. He really hadn’t spent much time with Robb and Dany since the wedding had happened, and for months before that the two of them had been tied up in wedding plans. It has been pretty easy to avoid being alone or in close proximity to Dany, all things told. Now, though…

“Well, I don’t want to be a paramedic for the rest of my life,” Dany said. She paused, setting her fork down. “My dream is to end up working with abused populations and sexual trafficking victims.”

“Really?” said Catelyn, looking intrigued. “And why’s that, dear?”

Dany looked almost embarrassed, or hesitant. “Well, it’s a bit of a long story. I’ve spent a lot of time traveling, and what I saw… helped make up my mind, essentially.” She took a small breath and tucked a strand of white-blonde hair behind her ear. Her eyelashes, Jon noticed, cast faint shadows on her cheekbones as she blinked.

“But the reason I wanted to go into healthcare in the first place is because I have a lot of first-hand experience with it. Not good things. My brother is bipolar, and he’s in an institution. My boyfriend was in a car accident, and then a terrible coma for a long time.”

Jon’s stomach jerked. How had he never known this about Dany before? How had Robb never mentioned it? He watched her closely… but then his gaze was drawn suddenly to his cousin beside her, and he saw that Robb was gazing at her with the same adoring fondness that he himself felt. Feeling that the resemblance was too much to bear, Jon cast his eyes away for a moment.

Robb put a reassuring hand on his wife’s shoulder, and Dany forced an appeasing sort of smile, as if apologising for the intensity of her tone. “Anyway it’s all right. It’s taxing work, mentally and emotionally, but I feel like it’s all worth it for the greater good.”

“I’d say,” Sansa said, smiling slightly. “And besides, a lot of developmental and sexual trafficking issues you might be interested in have been subjects of the gender studies talks at uni. I think it’s pretty brave of you to want to be more involved.”

“You absolutely totally go,” Arya added, which didn’t surprise Jon in the least – you could always count on her to head toward the root of any family discussion. “I went to one of them with Sansa and her roomie on a free weekend, once. Bloody brilliant stuff.”

“Thank you, Arya,” Dany replied, grinning herself. “That could be my New Year’s resolution, now that you mention it." 

Ned was nodding thoughtfully, and everyone looked impressed.

Then Robb cleared his throat, diffusing the slightly awed silence that had settled over the room. “Well, thanks babe, you just knocked everyone’s socks off.” He mustered a laugh, and Dany laughed a tiny bit too, nestling into his shoulder with the air of someone supremely comforted. He leaned forward for the nearest bottle of red wine, gesturing around at everyone. “Anyone want another drink?”

 

 

**Renly**

It was only after a long night at a black-tie gala for holiday charity relief that Renly again saw his deputy chief of staff look anything less than perfectly composed.

The gala was held in a regal old hotel on the outskirts of London, a converted manor home. Pacing slowly backstage before his speech, Renly glanced up at the sound of footsteps, and had a pleasant jolt of shock when he recognised the familiar curly-headed figure coming toward him. Loras looked extremely suave in another one of his slim-cut suits, and afforded Renly a quick nod as he drew near. “Hello, sir.”

Renly stopped moving. “Hello, Loras. How are you?”

“Perfectly well, sir, and you?” Loras granted him a quick, professional half-smile… one that produced a tantalizing flash of that familiar dimple.

 _No_ , Renly told himself sternly. _Stop it._ This really was getting out of hand. He was the Prime Minister of England, and here he was dancing around a staffer like a schoolboy with a crush.

“They’ll be ready for you in a few minutes,” Loras told him crisply, consulting a small clipboard. “Cortnay’s briefed you with notes for the speech, right? It should all be on the prompter.”

“Very good,” Renly said, smiling.

“All right,” Loras said. “We—” Then he paused and looked rather critically at Renly’s neck. “Oh, sir, your collar. If I may?”

Without waiting for Renly’s permission, he leaned in and paused for just a quick moment under Renly’s chin. Catching the scent of Loras’s cologne (something green and citrusy; it smelled nice), Renly fought not to look down at Loras as he fixed his eyes on Renly’s collar. The younger man’s eyelashes fanned beautifully, and he bit his lower lip in concentration as he worked. Renly really was trying not to stare, but it was impossible not to. It ought to be illegal, to be so—to look like—to do like that— _fuck._ Just being in such close proximity to the man made Renly feel as if his brain was melting a little bit.  

“Good luck, sir,” Loras said with a smile, straightening and fixing Renly with a warm look. “You’ll be brilliant.” When he turned and walked away Renly gazed after him, watching him recede into the wings. _God, he has a nice ass_ , he thought, and immediately scolded himself when he realised he was thinking it.

As Loras had predicted, the speech went over exceedingly well. Renly, who could give practised and charming addresses in his sleep, enjoyed his topic and delivered a rousing call for holiday generosity. The speech and subsequent dinner were a blur—more of the same. He shook some hands, posed for several photos, and smiled the whole way through. Then it was done.

His deputy chief of staff met up with Renly as he exited. “It really was a success, sir,” Loras told him, glancing over the clipboard he held. They moved briskly alongside Renly’s security detail en route to the waiting car. “The organisers were very pleased with all you said, and I think it’ll go down nicely in the press tomorrow.”

“Excellent,” Renly said, nodding. “I trust they got the talking points they wanted?”

“Yes, perfectly.” Loras allowed him a small smile. “ _I_ think you were brilliant, by the way. It was quite a good speech.”

Renly laughed at that, a bit surprised. “Thank you, Loras.” When he turned to the younger man, smiling appreciatively, their eyes met—and held—for just a moment longer than usual.

Rather suddenly, then, Loras turned away to glance towards the door at which they’d just arrived. “And we’re here. Your car is waiting, Mr Prime Minister.”

Renly paused in the doorway, even as his security man put a hand on his arm to usher him out. Standing alone in the empty hall behind them, Loras looked tired. He stifled a yawn with the heel of his hand, eyes fluttering closed for a second. “Oh, excuse me,” he said softly when he noticed Renly looking, and the look on his face as he did it was almost ridiculously endearing.

“Loras, how are you getting home?” Renly said abruptly, unable to stop himself. Oh, he was going to regret this, he could already feel it.

Loras raised his head, surprised. “I was only going to hail a taxi—it’s too late for the train.”

“Don’t be daft,” Renly said, with brisk authority. He took one step back into the house, so that they were facing one another. “I can take you in the car. You don’t live far, do you?”

Loras paused. “No, I…”

“Well, then?”

“But the press—”

“Bugger the press.”

Loras stared at Renly for a few startled seconds before breaking into a smile that was a bit disbelieving, and a bit delighted. “Well—all right. If you insist.”

There was an awkward moment as they both settled into the back seat of the car, closing the door onto luxurious comfortable darkness. Then Renly cleared his throat and sat forward, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. “Where are we going, Loras?”

He saw the younger man smile beside him. “Oh.” Loras leaned forward and pressed the intercom button. “Belgravia. 75 Rose Road Court, please,” he said, in a calm, easy way that suggested he’d been in the back of many driven cars before, and then settled back onto the seat.

“Fancy area,” Renly observed.

Loras gave a modest little shrug. “Oh, it’s my family’s place. I mean, I don’t live with my family,” he clarified, “but I’m spending the weekend with them. I’ll be home for Christmas though, soon enough.”

“Right, I see.” Renly paused. “Well. What do you say we open a bottle of champagne, to celebrate a night gone splendidly?”

There was an amused little sound from the other side of the seat. “Are you romancing me, Mr Prime Minister?”

Renly felt his heart nearly stop in his chest—and from the slightly horrified intake of breath on Loras’s side, it was clear that Loras had once again spoken without thinking. There was a moment in which, although it was too dark in the town car to tell, Renly was quite certain that both of them were blushing.

Loras cleared his throat, sounding hideously embarrassed. “Oh, my God. Excuse me. I’m—I’m so sorry.”

“Oh no, not at all,” Renly said awkwardly. He forced a smile, reaching for the champagne bottle. _I KNEW YOU LIKED BLOKES!_ a voice in his head was screaming, but there was no time to think about that now. He’d just have to play this off, coolly and deliberately. “I have to flirt my way to the hearts of all my staffers. Inspires loyalty, you know.”

“Yes, of course,” said Loras with a nonchalant laugh. He really had gotten better at regaining his composure, Renly observed with some approval, since the first time they’d met. “Here, I—please, allow me.” Loras reached to take the bottle of champagne from Renly; placing a towel over his arm, he opened it with quick finesse. “Here we are, then.”

Renly extended two champagne flutes from the cabinet, and Loras filled them. They leaned back against the seat and sipped quietly for a moment. The car had reached Piccadilly Circus, and the lights of their police escort flashed through the back window despite the blackout coating. Combined with the neon din of the thoroughfare it seemed for a moment that their car was some sort of island, an isolated spot of quiet amid the clamour of the London night.

“So you must be quite close to your family, then?” Renly said at last. “To be spending Christmas with them, and staying with them now?”

In the passing lights of the streets around them, he saw Loras’s face light up. “Oh yes. They’re everything to me.”

“You’re very lucky.” Renly took a long sip of champagne.

Loras turned to face him. “You’re not close to your family, Mr Prime Minister?”

“Call me Renly, please,” he said automatically. “And no, I don’t exactly get on with my family.” He paused, thinking for a moment of Robert and Stannis. “It sounds rather bad, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been seeing your brother on the telly quite often lately,” Loras said lightly. “He seems to be quite a… jolly type. I imagine that could get a bit tiring.”

“Jolly when he’s been drinking, perhaps. And that bloody song of his has been absolutely _everywhere_ since November.”

“Well. It’s not quite as good as the original, I’d say,” Loras observed diplomatically.

“It’s absolute shit!” Renly exclaimed, snorting in a rather ungentlemanly way. “‘ _Pour_ some Christmas on me?’ It’s a bloody travesty!”

“Yes, it _is_ shit, isn’t it?” Loras dissolved into adorable laughter. Then he grew serious, setting his glass down and folding his hands in his lap. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that about your family, Mr—Renly. But, you know, you always have all of us on your staff, and we think quite highly of you.” He paused. “You might consider us your family, if you’d have us.”

Renly was strangely touched. “Why… thank you, Loras. That’s very kind of you to say.”

“Of course.” Loras met his eyes and, in the dimness of the car, looked at him rather intensely for a moment. “Renly.”

“75 Rose Road Court, sir,” the driver announced over the intercom. The town car drew smoothly up to the snowy-white façade of a gorgeous townhouse, nearly identical to the many other storied ones that lined the streets of Belgravia.

Both men sat back on the seat, not looking at one another. Finally Loras set down his glass. “Well. I should go.” He gathered his things, shifting to perch on the edge of the seat. “Thank you for the lift.”

Renly smiled, something tight and coiled in his chest. “You’re welcome, Loras. It was my pleasure.”

Loras hesitated, and then drew forward. He pressed his hand very lightly over Renly’s, giving it the gentlest of squeezes. His face was serious, and a little bit childish in the slanting light from the street. “No, it was mine.”

Renly felt his heart speeding up. He was about to open his mouth, to say something, when there was a sudden squeal of tires outside. After what felt like only a few seconds, several lights started popping outside the car and a chorus of boisterous voices rose. “Mr Prime Minister! Hey, Renly! Hey!”

“Oh, _fuck_.”

The press had caught up with them, wrecking the still calm of the quiet neighbourhood. They were both startled, and just like that the moment was gone. Loras drew back, his mouth set in rueful resignation, showing just a bit of that beautiful dimple.

“Well, I’d better go in.” He smiled regretfully, and bit guardedly, at Renly. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Mr Prime Minister.”

“Renly,” Renly was about to say, but Loras opened the door and withdrew before he could say anything more. He watched helplessly as his deputy chief of staff hurried through the crowd of paparazzi, face downturned with the grace of a practiced celebrity. Releasing a great sigh, Renly sat back against the seat of the car; all he could do was watch as Loras walked swiftly away from him, their growing separation enforced by a wall of noisy photographers (and a great deal more than that, if he was going to be perfectly honest with himself).

It seemed that he could only be Renly when it was just the two of them.

**Stannis**

“Daddy,” said Shireen the next day at breakfast, apropos of absolutely nothing, “what did you like when you were little? What sorts of things?”

Stannis looked at his daughter over the table. Shireen, although bashful with strangers, was always so full of questions for him. Someone had once told him that child-rearing required imagination, and that person had been right. Shireen asked him questions every day, everything from biomedical ephemera to ludicrous what-if situations, and he was often hard-pressed to think of the answers. He was a man after all, not an encyclopaedia.

Stannis finished spreading strawberry jam on his toast triangles before setting down the butter knife. “Little? How little do you mean?”

Shireen shrugged, a bit too casually to be asking without particular reason. “Maybe… ten?”

“Hmm.” Stannis sipped his tea, thinking. He hardly remembered being that young, only that he’d been rather serious. Little Stannis had always had to clean up his older brother’s messes, and had forever been warring with Renly for power and attention. He hadn’t had much to do with either of his siblings, in any case, before they’d all been sent off to separate boarding schools.

“Books, I think. And sports equipment. Why do you ask?”

“I’m just thinking about someone,” his daughter replied cryptically. She was pushing her eggs around on her plate, looking strangely thoughtful.

Stannis watched her sternly. “What’s wrong, Shireen?” As he watched, her expression grew steadily more focused, until she actually looked a bit upset. He lowered his voice. “Shireen, are you feeling sad about… your mother?”

Shireen glanced at him, and then looked away. She was quiet for a long time, nearly two minutes, and Stannis had just begun to worry that they were about to have a dramatic episode when she spoke up. “Well, the thing is, Daddy,” she said at last, “I miss Mum, I really do. But… I’m in love.”

He must have misheard. “Excuse me?”

Shireen looked at him with clear eyes. “Yes, Daddy. I’m in love.”

This could not be happening. Stannis took a hasty sip of tea to gain composure, but only succeeded in burning his tongue. “Don’t you think you’re a little… young?”

His daughter crossed her arms, looking absolutely disgusted at his lack of understanding. “No!”

“Oh. Oh, yes of course.” Stannis hardly knew what he was saying. It was best to be rational about this, and to treat the situation as if it were perfectly normal; that way he could neatly eliminate the source of the problem. His daughter was inquiring about the preferences of a ten-year-old boy, so… “Right. May I ask… who the lucky fellow is?”

“It’s—Rickon Stark,” Shireen confessed without prompting, blue eyes going a little starry as she said the name. “Ever since we met at his brother’s wedding, we started talking and… well, he made me feel better. About Mum, and everything.”

Stannis considered this. He needed more information. “How are you speaking to him?” he asked neutrally.

“We’re Facebook friends,” his daughter said, and her expression added, “ _Duh._ ”

Stannis frowned. He clearly needed to be stricter about Shireen’s Internet time. “So…”

“I want to get him a present for the holidays,” Shireen said, her eyes growing big. “To show him how much he means to me, since he’s always been such a good friend. Can’t we go Christmas shopping, Daddy? Please?”

“I don’t know,” Stannis hedged. Honestly, thinking of boys at her age? She was only nine—he’d assumed he’d have at _least_ four or five more years before broaching this sticky topic. He needed advice, preferably from a woman. (If only he knew any.)

“Come _on_ , Daddy,” Shireen pleaded. “I know Mummy used to be against it, but… now it’s just the two of us, and…” She paused, clearly mustering her persuasive nerve. “Haven’t you ever been in love?”

Seeing his daughter look at him like that, genuinely asking, Stannis had to think about it. Had he? Had he ever had someone who made him smile to think about, who understood him better than he understood himself?

 _Yes_ , he thought suddenly. The thought came to him so fast that it was surprising, and hit him like an electric shock. _I do have someone like that. I do._

“Weren’t you in love with Mummy?” Shireen pressed.

 “Of course I loved your mother.” _But I wasn’t in love with her._ And Selyse was not the person who had come to Stannis’ mind. He cleared his throat. “This isn’t an appropriate topic of conversation, Shireen. Now finish your breakfast—”

“But Daddy, _please_ —” 

“—and we can discuss the possibility of going Christmas shopping for a present for your _friend_ later. Maybe after school today.”

 

 

**Catelyn**

Catelyn woke up at 6 AM to the sight of her husband disappearing into the bathroom. “Darling,” she said blearily, “where are you going?”

Ned turned to smile at her over his broad shoulder. He was wearing nothing but his pyjama bottoms, and his hair was slightly rumpled. “Shhh. I’ll be back soon.”

“But—but you don’t have to work today,” she said, confused, propping herself up on one elbow. “You don’t have to go into London.”

He came over to the bed and kissed her. “Shh, Cat. I’m only going for a run. I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Oh,” she said, overcome with real relief. Ned had trouble breaking his early-morning habits, and got up extremely early even on his days off. She kept early hours too, but on workdays Ned was uniformly out of the house earlier than she was and back later than her, too. “All right then.”

He smiled at her once again, slight stubble showing on his chin in the pre-dawn light, and disappeared into the bathroom. Cat was left alone to wrestle with her thoughts. She lay back onto the bed, falling onto the crisp linen sheets and pressing both hands over her eyes for a moment. Her heart was still pounding a bit quickly, and she was embarrassed by how alarmed she’d gotten over the possibility of not seeing her husband for a day.

Not all MPs worked as hard as Ned did, but he was devoted to the job. He’d been on the job representing the Wolfsden Parliamentary constituency since Sansa was born in 1993, and he took it very seriously. Cat was immensely proud of him, prouder than she ever was of anything she herself could have achieved.

She couldn’t say that it hadn’t been hard though, at times. She worked long hours at Queenscrown College, too. It was much easier now that the children were grown. She knew fully that the only reason she’d been able to continue her academic career was thanks in no small part to the two nannies she’d employed, Mrs Mordane for the older children and Osha for the younger ones. Both had become like parts of the family, even after the children had grown too old to need nannies any more, and both would be coming to the New Years’ Party in a week’s time.

And Cat missed Ned all the time, too, even though she saw him every night. Night was the only time they had to spend with each other bar the weekends; if they caught the 5 o’clock commuter train home together, she considered that a victory. So a few weeks of uninterrupted time with Ned at home was, as far as she was concerned, heavenly.

Now, though, it was far too early to be thinking about these things, and Cat was going to catch up on her rest. She yawned, turned over, and went back to sleep. 

* * *

 

She woke up to Ned gently shaking her shoulder. “Cat… Cat, wake up. I made coffee.”

She opened her eyes and squinted at him, reaching for her glasses. “Well. And not only that, I see!”

Her husband was standing at the side of the bed, fully dressed in a pair of khaki trousers, grey jumper, and the thick black-rimmed spectacles that always made her think nostalgically of the way he had looked when they’d first met at university in the ‘80s. “I thought I’d make breakfast in bed,” he said, practically bursting with pride, nodding at the laden breakfast tray in his hands.

“Darling!” she said, springing up and kissing him. “You’re a treasure.”

When they had spread themselves out on the bed comfortably, though, papers open for reading, Cat found she was much less interested in hot scones, eggs, and bacon than she was in leaning her head against her husband’s chest and listening to him breathe. “I’m so happy you’re home,” she confessed, nestling into him.

Setting down his cup of coffee, Ned put his arm around her, pulling her close. He brushed the hair off the side of her face and kissed her. “I am too, Cat.”

She smoothed one hand across the thick knit of his jumper, slowly. “It’s so nice to have you here… and all the kids, too. Isn’t it funny to have them all here?”

Her husband chuckled. “They’re certainly getting older.”

Having everyone at home at first had been overwhelming in a sort of claustrophobic way, but then Catelyn had remembered how things were with all the kids at home when they were young, running around Winterfell. “They’re so funny,” she said. “Rickon was tearing around the house yesterday looking for wrapping paper, and he was so relieved when I reminded him that it was in my study.”

“Maybe he’s gotten really into the Christmas spirit this year,” Ned said, chuckling. “Takes after his old dad. Should we be expecting some extra nicely wrapped gifts?”

“I don’t know,” Catelyn said thoughtfully. “He may have someone else in mind.”

“The other ones seem quite happy, too,” Ned said warmly, and Catelyn nodded, agreeing. But she had a secret to share, and it was a bit selfish and a bit embarrassing. She leaned up to whisper in her husband’s ear, wrapping her arms around his waist from the side. 

“I know the children are doing fine,” she said softly. She paused, breathing gently. “But my greatest happiness this Christmas, Ned? It’s you. Having you here, home safe, with me.”

 

 

**Jon**

Coming slowly down the stairs, Ned was singing Christmas carols in a horribly off-key voice, punctuating each note with another creaky step. “Santa baby…”

Jon heard Arya groan loudly from the kitchen, and complain at the top of her lungs to an unseen Catelyn, “Mum, please make Dad stop singing! It’s making my ears hurt!”

Jon shifted, smiling slightly. The holidays seemed to inspire a certain kind of joy in the head of the Stark family; he was cheerful and jokey in a way that he wasn’t for the rest of the year.

Jon remembered not seeing too much of Ned growing up. Ned was always working hard in London, coming home late due to the long commute and always alternately exhausted and relieved to be in the company of his family whenever he arrived home. The most they saw of Ned was during the summer Parliamentary holiday, but Ned had been so determined to do his duty as an MP that he’d used the entire month working with the local constituency. Jon remembered more than one fight behind closed doors between Ned and Catelyn about the possibility of Ned serving his job _just_ a little less so that he could spend a little more time with the family.

So it was quite nice to have him home now, Jon reflected, although like everyone else, he _did_ wish that Ned would ease up on the holiday tunes just a bit.

Standing in the centre of the living room and singing softly along to the Christmas songs that played on the radio, Sansa was finishing decorating the Christmas tree with tinsel when Ned jumped out from behind a door and boomed, “HO HO HO!” Sansa let out a bloodcurdling shriek and fell on the floor. Where he sat sprawled on the Chesterfield, Robb doubled over, laughing so hard he couldn’t speak.

“ _Dad_!” Sansa cried, getting to her feet with a look of fury that would have made her mother proud. Ned was laughing almost as hard as Robb. He was wearing a red jumper and looked as merry as Father Christmas himself.

“Dad!” Jon’s cousin repeated, crossing the room and pounding on her dad’s chest with two closed fists. “What is wrong with you—you _scared_ me!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Ned said, still chuckling and not looking sorry at all. He fended off his daughter’s blows easily. “Come on, where’s your holiday spirit?”

“That’s not funny, Dad!” Sansa scowled and stalked off towards the kitchen.

Ned caught Jon’s eye and winked; smiling, Jon turned his eyes back to his laptop, where he was editing the wedding pictures again. It was difficult – then again, he couldn’t expect anything less when he had pictures of Dany to work on. _Ah, Christ_. He couldn’t believe he was actually doing this out in the open, but if anyone actually happened to see his screen he could always just flick back to his general wedding album.

Just then Dany herself came in, carrying a thick book and wearing a cosy-looking jumper and a smile. In person, she was even more distracting than in her photos. “Hi Ned, hi Jon,” she said, looking around. Ned smiled at her and went out; Dany sat down next to Robb on the sofa, scooted close, and greeted him with a kiss. Jon tried not to watch as Dany snuggled close under Robb’s arm.

Rickon wandered in, holding a small wrapped gift in one hand and a fistful of colourful ribbons in the other. “Oi Robb, Dany,” he said absently. “Hey Dany, d’you know how to tie a pretty bow? Girls know how to do that kind of thing, right?”

Robb sat up. “Sure,” said Dany, with a smile. “Although Robb’s actually probably better at that kind of thing than I am. Nimble hands and all.”

“Right,” said Rickon with a shrug. He handed the present and ribbons to Robb and watched imperiously as Robb worked. “Not like that,” he commanded, causing Robb to roll his eyes and start over. “Can you do the curly thing with the ends? You know, so that it looks really fancy?”

“If you’ve got some scissors,” Robb told him, eying him sceptically.

“Here,” said Jon automatically, and they all looked up at him over in the corner of the room. Dany’s eyes creased warmly as she did so. He set his laptop aside and crossed the room, offering the large scissors that had been sitting on the coffee table by him, likely left over from someone’s present-wrapping session.

“Now who’re you trying to impress, then?” Robb asked his younger brother curiously, as he sharpened the edges of the ribbon into curly points. He handed the gift to his little brother. Rickon only coloured furiously and went out of the room, muttering under his breath and clutching his beautifully wrapped gift.

“What’s that about, I wonder?” Dany mused, absently fingering the silver charm at her neck.

“Has he got a little girlfriend?” Robb laughed, settling back onto the sofa and reaching for his medical textbook. “Adorable.” 

Jon tried to muster a laugh, too, but the thought that Rickon probably had more chance of romantic success than he did—after all, Rickon undoubtedly had enough sense not to fall for a married woman—depressed him. Mumbling some excuses, Jon gathered up his laptop and mug of tea and exited the room. He couldn’t stand to be in the same room as the happy couple any longer.

 

 

 **Tyrion**  

After a few days of uninterrupted drinking, Tyrion decided that it was time to stop wallowing. First things first, he needed a shower and some aspirin. Simple enough. 

That accomplished, he needed to get dressed. Wearing only a towel, Tyrion dug through the suitcase he hardly remembered packing, as he’d literally thrown his things into a bag and hailed a taxi to the airport.

He squinted at the contents of his bag and stifled a groan. Among his things, in the armful of reading material he’d thrown in there, were some of Tysha’s books. It was inevitable. Weeks into their two-and-a-half-year relationship, she’d started reading all of his books and he’d started reading some of hers, often trading books after dates like college kids. Soon enough, they were sharing books and appropriating one another’s literary tastes. He liked Margaret Atwood but not Jane Austen, while she couldn’t stand Murakami (“What was up with that cat fetish of his, anyway?” she asked indignantly, as Tyrion struggled to place his point), but adored Vonnegut’s counterculturalism. In the end, they called it a draw over their mutual love of Toni Morrison.

Tysha was American, a breath of fresh air. They’d met at a literary event nearly three years ago when she’d been fresh out of university and new to London, setting her sights on becoming a literary critic like him. But once he’d read some of her original work, Tyrion had always been on her to try to write more, clearly noticing her firm literary grasp and cohesive potential.

Never mind that she was only twenty-four to his thirty-five – she’d asked him out first, shyly but directly suggesting they have coffee. Since then, he’d let her dictate the course of the relationship— they took it slow, unlike anything he’d done before—and it was just enough time for Tyrion to fall in love, and fall hard.

Had it been something about the fact that she was so much younger, and that going through all the clichés of young love with her made Tyrion feel like he, too, was experiencing them for the first time? At least there wasn’t a ring to return, he thought bitterly. They hadn’t quite got to that stage. _Obviously. And here I am._ He should count his blessings, clear his head, and move on.

Of course he had plenty of work to do – a dozen literary reviews of work to do for the publication of the February edition – but work wasn’t exactly the most soothing thing to think about right now. So Tyrion decided to go for a walk instead, to take his mind off things. But he felt thoroughly miserable trudging through the snow, and he couldn’t fucking stop thinking about Tysha.

“Fuck you, nature!” he said out loud, looking in irritation at the trees. “Fuck you, trees!” He drew in a deep breath of the cool air—wasn’t that shit supposed to be healing? “Fuck you, air!” Whoever said that long solo holidays were the way to go had no idea what they were on about. Apart from drinking, all his sober moments here had been straight dodgy.

When he returned to the house, Shae was vacuuming. She had her headphones in and was dancing and singing to herself, electropop music playing loudly enough for him to hear. Tyrion realised he was staring, and hastily snapped out of it. “Shae!” he said. “Shae!”

She didn’t notice him until she turned off the machine and wheeled around, shocked. “ _Merde_! You scared me!”

 **“** Sorry—I tried to say something, but you—”

“Where were you?” she demanded rather aggressively for someone who had merely been interrupted while vacuuming. Tyrion raised his eyebrows, lifting both hands as if to plead innocence. “Sorry… I only went out for a walk.”

Shae softened, losing some of her defensive posture. “Where did you go?”

“Just around the bend.”

“Left or right?” she demanded.

“Er—left?” Tyrion tried, scratching his head somewhat resignedly. When was he ever going to know his way around this bloody country? Then again, it wasn’t as if he’d spent much time outside the house since he’d arrived.

Shae shook her head. “Oh, that’s the bad way to go. Did you have a good walk?”

 _Well, apart from the obvious heartbreak I can’t seem to stop thinking about and the amount of work waiting for me back here, it was bloody great._ “I mean—it was all right?”

Shae put down the vacuum hose, shrugging her headphones off her ears until they hung loosely around her neck. “I know. Let’s have a walk together. I’ll take you the nice way, then we can fix lunch when we come back.”

“You—you don’t have to hang out with me, you know,” Tyrion said hastily. “I’m sure you’ve got plenty of other things to do. Houses to clean, and such. Work to do.”

Shae was staring at him. He hastened on. “I mean, things that would be much more interesting than taking a sad, boring, and very short British man for a walk.”

Seeing her raise her eyebrows (arms crossed too at that), Tyrion deduced that it wasn’t making things any better. He decided to shut up. “All right, you know what, that would be lovely. That would be very nice, thank you.”

They walked out in the snow in companionable silence, Shae leading him at a brisk pace through the clearly picturesque woods, eyes considerably bright despite the fact that her scarf was woven tightly around her neck. Shae was right—this was much nicer than the way he’d gone before.

When they returned, she fixed lunch and a salad, shooing him away when he asked to help. “I am getting paid, you know,” she reminded him nicely, with a fierce edge in her smile.

So Tyrion settled down in front of his computer to work. Shae set lunch in front of him and sat across from him, eating her croque madame in silence. He glanced at her once and she just smiled at him, like she knew something that he didn’t. Later, she cleared away the dishes and set some tea in front of him.

It was only when he’d finished the first draft of an entire review that he realised that for the first time since he’d gotten to France, he was actually being focused and productive.

 

 

**Sansa**

There was a lot of holiday baking to do, and Sansa was trying to finish it. With her parents’ old Sting CD playing on the stereo and the kitchen for once blissfully empty, she had her work cut out for her.

Baking had always been one of her favourite things to do; she’d been overjoyed to reach her second year at uni and move into a flat with its own oven (that worked, most of the time). Today, though, her hobby wasn’t working its usual calming magic, and Sansa frowned hard as she measured out the ingredients for royal icing.

Right now she was itching to text Margaery, so badly that it actually felt as if she might be suffering physical symptoms of withdrawal. She and Margaery talked almost constantly whenever they weren’t together, but ever since their kiss Sansa had hesitated over every text. It was so _stupid_. She and Marg texted about everything: when they were about to come home, for advice, whenever one of them wanted attention. That’s what best friends were for, right? You weren’t supposed to go and kiss them and then make things all awkward between the two of you. You weren’t supposed to make it so the girl you could tell absolutely anything to was suddenly the girl you couldn’t think about without blushing, and to whom you didn’t know what to say.

Other areas of social media were also no go. Last night Sansa had quickly logged off Facebook when she’d seen that Margaery was online. _What if she chats me? What am I supposed to say? “Hi, Marg, fancy another go?_ ”

The problem was that Sansa _did_ fancy another go. She thought she might fancy one quite a bit, actually. _Is that really such a problem?_ Although Sansa couldn’t quite put a finger on what she was feeling, it seemed distinctively like panic. _Good_ panic. Was that even possible? 

Wrapped up in her thoughts, Sansa was too distracted to notice her brother’s gigantic dog nosing hopefully up around her feet. Removing a hot pan of biscuits from the oven, she turned around without looking and promptly tripped over Grey Wind. Her pan clattered onto the kitchen floor, its contents flying everywhere and Nymeria, another one of their huskies, immediately leapt up and zoomed over from where she’d been dozing by the kitchen door. Both dogs started wolfing down the fallen sugar biscuits with enough gusto to suggest that for them Christmas had come early.

Sansa picked herself up, wincing, and started trying to physically push the giant dogs away. “Nymeria, Grey Wind, off!” Both dogs were yelping as they nosed the hot tray. “Stop it!”

Arya skidded around the corner and let out a piercing whistle, sticking two fingers in her mouth. “Out!” she ordered loudly, with terrifying authority. The two dogs immediately heeded her and speedily exited the kitchen. Sansa hastily bent down in hopes of salvaging the untouched biscuits, but the majority of them had now been reduced to crumbly, dog-slobber-covered bits. _Oh, dear._

Arya stood in the doorway, arms crossed as she watched Sansa work. “Having trouble?” she asked mildly.

Sansa shook her head as she stared at the floor, mumbling more to herself than to her sister. “It’s all right… I still have three other perfectly good trays, I can—”

Just then the oven timer went off again and she let out a little yelp of surprise. Trying to stand, Sansa knocked her head on the underside of the kitchen table and swore. “ _Ow_! Fuck!” Wincing, she turned around gingerly to retrieve the latest tray from the oven, only to find that her little sister had already beaten her to it.

“What is _with_ you lately?” Setting the tray of biscuits on the kitchen range, Arya folded her arms over her chest. “Usually you’re like bloody Nigella Lawson in the kitchen.”

This was true. Sansa loved to cook, and usually she gave it her full attention. Turning around, she closed the oven door and began to remove her oven mitts. “I’m just… distracted today, that’s all.”

“I’ll say,” Arya said sharply.

“It’s nothing _really_ , Arya. Only I’m not, um, used to baking in such large quantities.” Sansa paused for a moment, trying to stare at her sister convincingly. “Pass me that mixing bowl, will you?” She accepted the bowl of royal icing passed by a very suspicious-looking Arya and gave it a few business-like stirs. 

The icing was a bit too stiff, though. It needed milk, so Sansa set the bowl on the counter and stepped toward the fridge. Just then her mobile buzzed in her back pocket, and she stopped dead in the middle of the kitchen, forgetting everything else.

 

**_Are you making those cute Christmas biscuits you were telling me about?_ **

 

It was Margaery. Of course.

Sansa felt the tension lift from her chest, and she stood there smiling at her mobile like an idiot, feeling ridiculously happy for no good reason. Then her mobile buzzed again.

 

**_Send us a picture? ;)_ **

 

Her head filling with a thousand cute replies she could send, Sansa leaned against the table in concentration. Should she send an Instagram of the decorations she was going to use on her snowflake-shaped biscuits? They were awfully cute, she could arrange them… or perhaps it would be better to wait until—

But she _should_ have known better than to let her guard down around Arya, especially when Arya’s curiosity had been whetted. With the reflexes of a ninja, her little sister darted around the table and plucked the phone from her hands, completely ignoring Sansa’s yelp of shock. “Arya! What are you—give it back!”

It was too late. Arya was already gazing at the screen with sharp scrutiny, screwing her face up as she did so. “Margaery? Isn’t that that friend of yours from uni?”

Sansa bit her lip, trying to keep her face neutral. “Yes. It is.” She reached for her mobile desperately, but Arya jumped back and held it out of easy reach. “Arya!” she said, the shrill note in her voice recalling the hundreds of rows they’d had over the years. “Give it _back_!”

Arya studied her for a minute, narrowing her eyes, as Sansa grew increasingly nervous. “Fine,” her younger sister said finally, extending the phone in one hand.

Sansa grabbed her iPhone like a dying man and shoved it back in her pocket. She would wait until she was safely alone to send the perfect response text—safely away from younger siblings, busy areas where family members could come in and interrupt, and _far_ away where anywhere her mobile could be stolen and viciously read against her will.

Opposite, Arya stared at her critically. “You’re absolutely mental,” Sansa’s younger sister said slowly, “you do know that?”

Oh, Sansa knew. She really, truly did.

 

 

**Stannis**

Stannis flipped through the _Daily Telegraph_ , skimming the headlines. _Prime Minister Spreads Goodwill on Holiday Tour_ , read the article title that automatically caught his eye. Inside was a photo of Renly, looking handsome and dignified in a pair of red mittens, holding hands with a large crowd of children somewhere in the Midlands. On the slim flat-screen monitor mounted in the corner of his office, Stannis could see a clip of Robert’s Christmas video playing, mirroring the feed on the wall-to-wall bank of monitors in the room of busy cubicles before him. He was keeping an eye on both brothers, so to speak.

Through the glass of his walled-in office, he saw Davos approaching from the elevators. The other man gently pushed open the door, poking his head in. “All right? Am I interrupting anything?”

Stannis sat up, clearing his throat. “No, I’m only reading the news.” He indicated the television screen, which had just cut away to the set of a popular morning programme airing on one of his syndicate channels. “And…watching Robert.”

“Oh, yeh? Just thought I’d stop by.” Davos paused in front of the desk, and there was a moment of awkwardness before he came forward nonchalantly, breaking up the silence and distance between them as if it were nothing. They both turned to watch the television screen almost automatically.

“So, Robert,” said one of the hosts on the telly enthusiastically, “you’ve had quite a run, haven’t you? Get a load of those birds in your latest video, well done, well done! Now do tell us your secret! Who was your best shag?”

Davos and Stannis winced identically.

“Elia Martell,” Robert said without hesitation. He was dressed in a velvet blazer patterned in rhinestone-edged diamonds, and clashed horribly with the peach-coloured vinyl sofa he sat on. His stylist had apparently been going for 1970s nostalgia crossed with Henry VIII; it was not a good look. He chortled. “Nah, only joking—she never returned my calls. Fuckin’ bitch.”

“ _Idiot_ ,” Stannis said under his breath, disbelievingly, and just as he was literally beginning to see red he caught sight of Davos mercifully reaching over to flick off the monitor using the desk switch. “Enough of that, then,” Davos said, rather brightly. “And what are you reading about?”

Not bothering to wait for Stannis’s response, Davos came round and studied the paper over his shoulder. “Well,” said Davos, behind him. “It looks like both of your brothers are doing quite well with the media these days.”

Stannis had to smile. “It’s true. I’m rather impressed.”

“Renly always was good at PR,” Davos observed. “He’s a charmer, that one. And Robert, well… it doesn’t really matter to you if his record sells or not, does it?” He cleared his throat before deftly changing the subject. “And how’s your daughter?”

“Shireen is fine. She told me something rather alarming this morning, though.” Stannis set down his newspaper and swivelled his chair to look at Davos. _Don’t think about what you thought about this morning._ Instead, he steepled his fingers and spoke with as much grave importance as if he were revealing the details of a new business merger. “She said she likes Rickon Stark.”

“Ned Stark’s little boy?” Davos thought for a moment, then smiled. “That’s quite sweet. Puppy love. All me boys have got little girlfriends of their own, too.” He paused. “Sorry, what’s so alarming about that?”

“Well…” Stannis frowned. “I asked Shireen if it was serious, and… she says she’s in love.”

Davos laughed. “Love, eh?”

“She’s only nine,” Stannis said, a bit mulishly. “I don’t know if I can support this. The point is she’s asked to go Christmas shopping to buy him a present, and I’m not sure what to do.”

“Oh, you’re not seriously going to deny her that?”

Faced by the reasonable look on Davos’ face, Stannis felt doubtful. He’d already done his Christmas shopping for Shireen’s presents: Melisandre, his frighteningly glamorous personal assistant, had helped him pick out some sensible but pretty girls’ clothing for her. “I don’t know. It’ll be a madhouse.” If there was anything he loathed more than people, it was large quantities of them. That was a general rule.

“Come on,” Davos coaxed, leaning against Stannis’s sleek polychrome desk. “Are you busy after work today? Let’s drop by Shireen’s school and take her, just the three of us.” He leaned forward, grinning almost roguishly. Stannis couldn’t help but bite his lip in an appreciative sort of way at his good humour. “It’ll be fun. And your daughter will never forget it.”

And because it was Davos, and Davos could be so infectious, so simple and straightforward and cheerful in his way, Stannis found himself agreeing to go. Somewhere along the line, entirely thanks to Davos, he had turned into the kind of person who said yes. 

* * *

 

They left work just in time to pick Shireen up from school. She got into the town car looking like a 1960s schoolgirl in her prim navy blue coat and plaid uniform and gave a squeal of delight when she saw Davos, immediately wrapping her arms around him in a big hug. “Davos! Are we dropping you home, too? Did you leave work at the same time as Daddy?”

Whenever his daughter demonstrated her practical mind like this, Stannis’s heart simply swelled with love for her. She was the most sensible nine-year-old he had ever had occasion to meet. “Well, yes,” he interrupted, as his daughter swivelled to look at him eagerly, “but only after we stop into Harrods.”

Shireen let out a shriek of excitement and grasped both their hands, trying to hug them both simultaneously. Stannis was a bit squashed, but it was still nice. “Davos, you helped, didn’t you? You made him say yes?” Shireen said breathlessly, grabbing Davos’ hands and shaking them back and forth. Davos only chuckled and said, “I heard you had a bit of Christmas shopping to do.”

The car traversed London traffic, cutting through the crowded night streets as sleekly and smoothly as a large black dolphin. Then they turned onto Brompton Road and Harrods loomed up in the distance illuminated by endless lengths of golden lights, looking for all the world like a giant present ready to be unwrapped. Shireen pressed her hands to the windows of the car and stared, open-mouthed. “Wow… it’s so magical!”

They got out of the car and paused to stare at the brilliantly lit display in the department store’s first floor windows, wordlessly admiring the giant, gleaming silver train and its various glittering compartments. “Christ, it’s the Hogwarts Express,” Davos said at last, and Shireen nodded fervently. Stannis, who didn’t know what that was, checked his watch. “It’s just gone five—we’d better go in.”

That was easier said than done. Inside the store it was an absolute zoo, just as crowded as Stannis had feared. Hordes of people were everywhere, rushing about as if their lives depended on successfully completing their Christmas shopping. Even getting from floor to floor was a nightmare on the busy escalators, and Stannis was instantly wildly grumpy.

“Come on, mate,” Davos said gently, putting a hand on his upper arm. “It’s for Shireen, remember?” Stannis hadn’t been aware that his displeasure was showing quite so much, and rearranged his features into a slightly more neutral expression. He’d learned from long experience that if he forced himself to smile, it would stick. But he didn’t do it for just anyone—only Shireen, and only Davos. False smiles were for daft people, or junior businessmen.

Shireen didn’t appear to know what she was looking for, and moved, wide-eyed, from one display to the next. She seemed rather dazed by the gorgeous Christmas decorations, and looked grateful when Davos began prompting her with gentle questions. “Does your friend play sports? He might like something to add to his sports kit. Or, if you know the football club he supports—maybe he’d like some team clothing, like a scarf?”

“I don’t know…” Shireen said distractedly, moving from one rack to the next.

Finally they entered the media section, full of gleaming shelves and life-size cardboard cutouts of popular figures. Narrowing his eyes at the dazzling array of films and box sets, Stannis stopped in front of one box that looked extremely familiar. “Shireen, look,” he called, holding it up. “It’s your favorite.”

To his surprise, his daughter’s entire face lit up when she saw what he held. “Oh, Daddy, it’s perfect!”

“It is?” He glanced down at the Doctor Who boxed set, limited edition. He was quite sure Shireen already had this one at home.

“Yes!” Shireen took it from him, turning it over excitedly. “Rickon will love this!”

“Oh.” In the holiday melee, he’d almost forgotten what they were doing—shopping for a gift for Shireen’s young man. Right. Well. “Is this what you want, then?” His daughter nodded happily, looking down at the box in her hands. “Are you sure?” he asked sternly.

She looked up at him, beaming. “Yes, Daddy! I’m sure. Oh, it’s perfect.”

Davos came over to join them, smiling at the happy expression on Shireen’s face. “Davos, look,” said Stannis, not thinking, and reached down for another one of the film sets. “It’s you.”

Davos fell into place beside him, taking the box. His eyes crinkled in bemusement, and he glanced sideways at Stannis. “James Bond?”

“Yes,” Stannis said, before realizing that he had just told his co-worker and best mate that he looked like James Bond. Icy embarrassment rushed through his veins. Maybe if he stayed quite still, Davos wouldn’t notice that he had essentially just called Davos handsome.

Davos actually seemed rather flattered. He chuckled softly, rubbing his thumb over the cling film surrounding the box. “Are you saying that I look like Roger Moore?”

“Christ, no.” Why was Stannis finding it hard to form words just now? Davos was standing awfully close; they were practically shoulder-to-shoulder. Stannis reached out and indicated the correct Bond on the box. His and Davos’ fingers were now less than an inch apart. “Sean Connery. You look almost exactly like Sean Connery.”

 “Why, if that isn’t the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” Davos seemed like he was joking, but as he drew back to look at Stannis, his eyes were unusually warm. “Thanks, mate. I’m glad I don’t look like Roger Moore, though. Heard he was a right twat.”

“Oh, ha. Right.” Stannis withdrew his hand and slid it into his pocket. “It—er, must be the accent that does it. The resemblance, that is.” _What the hell am I saying?_

“Must be,” said Davos, watching him closely.

“Davos!” said Shireen loudly, coming up beside them and clutching her unpurchased gift. “Did you say a _bad word_? I thought I heard you say—”

“Shall we go have something to eat?” Stannis said hastily. “Shireen, come on! Let’s get that present for you.”

They passed the jewellery section on their way to the escalator to ground level, and Stannis paused for a moment over a lighted counter, before quickly falling into step with Davos as Shireen darted ahead of them.

Harrods’ famous Food Hall was busy, but not unbearably so. “Oh, Daddy, it looks so good!” Shireen said, pulling him by the hand to the desserts section. She bent down to look at all the sweets, lighted in colourful and lovely rows. “Can I have two? Please? And we can have dinner after at home, because it’s nearly Christmas and that’s a special occasion?”

Davos gave him a look. “I’m strict about sweets at home,” Stannis explained.

“Somehow I’m not surprised.”

“Let’s each pick two and share, then,” Stannis said generously, even if the decadence of that made him a little ill.

“Do you think Rickon is going to like it?” Shireen said anxiously, once they had sat down at their corner table, miraculously found in the gigantic crush of people all around, and begun to tuck into their desserts. She took a bite of her vanilla fairy cake with pink frosting and smiled. “Oh, that’s really delicious. Thank you, Daddy.”

“I think he’ll love the gift,” Davos said warmly. “So tell me, Shireen. What, ah, what do you like about Rickon, then?”

Shireen took a sip of hot cocoa before her thin little face creased into a smile. “Well, he’s keen on all the same things as me. He likes Doctor Who, and dogs, and—Daddy, Rickon’s family has _loads_ of dogs! Could we get a dog too? Please?”

“Now, you’ve only just gotten one thing you really wanted, and now you want a pet?” Stannis said severely. He took a small bite of his crème brûlée, which even he had to admit was delicious.

“I was only asking,” his daughter said gamely, with the air of someone used to parental denial, and went back to her story. “He’s really nice and funny, but he isn’t stupid like all the boys at school. When I told him about Mum dying, he said that he knew it wasn’t the same, but that he was really sad when his sister’s dog, Lady, died. He said he didn’t want to get out of bed for a whole day.”

“I see,” Davos said, nodding with a thoughtful look. He seemed to know exactly how to speak to children about these things. Stannis envied him that. “I think he sounds like an upstanding little lad. The thing is, though, Shireen, you need to make sure that he treats you well.”

“Does he have honourable intentions with you?” Stannis said sternly.

Both Shireen and Davos turned to look at him. “Daddy,” Shireen said, sounding mortified. “This is not the Middle Ages! Or the 1950s!”

“Stannis,” Davos added, placating, “the boy is ten.”

“And still potentially harmful,” Stannis said sharply.

“I’m nine years old,” Shireen said, beginning to sound a little upset. “That’s old enough to buy a boy a present for Christmas, especially if he’s a really _nice_ boy.”

Davos gave Stannis a measured look, clearly intended to make Stannis understand that he was being unreasonable. Stannis recognised that look, and he _hated_ being thought unreasonable, so he took a deep breath. Perhaps he was being a bit too harsh. He remembered that Davos had five sons of his own, so he probably knew what he was talking about, and Rickon’s own father was the famously stern Ned Stark. There was no reason to overreact.

“All right,” he said finally, with a curt nod. To his surprise, he actually sort of meant it.

Both his daughter and his best mate smiled at him, their tenseness deflating visibly, and they continued to talk. Stannis sat back against the seat and observed, half-listening, as he warred with himself. _I’m not being unreasonable. It’s only that Davos knows slightly more about this than I do. I’m only being a good father._ “I’ll be back—just going to the loo,” he said at length. “Go ahead and finish my desserts.”

He nipped up the escalator to that jewellery counter he’d spied before, and waited impatiently for the salesperson to wrap his purchase. Slipping it into the pocket of his coat, he returned to the food hall and made his way back to their table—then stopped as abruptly as if a moving train had hit him.

Davos and Shireen were conversing, laughing, as they shared the remains of Davos’ chocolate cake. As Stannis watched, Shireen said something, grinning mischievously, and then looked happy enough to burst as Davos tipped his head back to bark with laughter. They looked so at home together, like they belonged that way. There was no denying, Stannis realised suddenly, just how much Davos had come to belong not only in _his_ life, but also in Shireen’s.

Davos, of course, was the person he’d thought of that morning, when his daughter had asked him if there was anyone he loved.

He didn’t want to _touch_ Davos, that wasn’t quite it. Stannis had never wanted to touch anyone, really; physical contact as a whole had always made him uncomfortable, even with his wife. Did that make him a terrible person? He’d always just assumed he didn’t feel much warmth for anyone. But Davos made him calmer, and happier; Davos made Stannis strive to be more tolerant and a better father to Shireen, while also making it wordlessly clear that he accepted Stannis unconditionally, coldness and all.

Simply put, he felt better when Davos was around. And if what he’d just seen was good evidence, Shireen clearly felt the same way. The frightening thing was, though, that Stannis didn’t know what he was going to do about it. He didn’t have the slightest idea, and it terrified him.

“Stannis!” Davos called, lifting his head. “Daddy!” Shireen echoed. Stannis forced a smile, waved a hand in the air, and unstuck himself to move forward and re-join them.

After all desserts had been finished, Stannis called the car round. They drove past Hyde Park, gloriously lit up for Winter Wonderland, and London slid by their windows in its golden, sparkling nocturnal beauty. “That was lovely,” Shireen said, with the contented sigh of a girl with the whole world in her grasp. She snuggled back against the car seat between the two of them. “Thank you. 

Stannis turned to Davos, conceding wordlessly that he had been right about the whole Christmas shopping thing after all, and Davos nodded. For a moment they smiled at one another over Shireen’s head. Then Stannis looked away abruptly, afraid to read too much into things. He didn’t know what might happen if he let himself look any longer.

 

 

**Renly**

Around 3 p.m. in the afternoon, the weak winter sun slanting through the slatted blinds of Renly’s study, there came a knock on the door. “Come in!” Renly called, not looking up from his work. There was a series of very detailed briefings he was trying to make his way through before supper, and they required a lot of concentration.

The door opened. It was Loras, looking very handsome in a steel grey suit with pale blue details and carrying a tray laden with tea service.

“Oh,” said Renly, setting down his pen with a smile. “Hello there.” On second thought, he supposed those briefings could wait.

“The housekeeper was busy,” the younger man greeted him, coming in closer and crossing the room with an easy stride, “so I volunteered to take this up to you in her stead. Just doing my bit.”

“For the good of the nation,” Renly quipped. He glanced over the tea tray, replete with steaming cup of tea and neatly stacked digestives. “Emma may be out of a job, though. _She_ never gives me chocolate biscuits, only plain.”

Loras smirked. “Well, I reckoned that if you’re so busy running the nation, you rather deserved the kind with chocolate on.”

Renly had to smile. He reached out and took a sip of tea, trying not burn his tongue or otherwise look foolish. (Luckily, he didn’t.)

“So what are your plans for the holidays, Mr Prime Minister?” Loras asked, lingering. He ran a finger around the silver rim of the tea tray, not taking his eyes off Renly.

“Oh, I don’t know.” All potentially embarrassing disasters averted, Renly carefully set his teacup down on the saucer. “I’ll definitely have to pay a visit to my older brother, Stannis. He has a little girl, my niece, who’s very sweet. And you?”

“Oh, I can’t wait to go home for the holidays,” Loras said, face lighting with the genuine smile he always seemed to get when he talked about his home life. “My sister’s been ringing me every day, telling me everything they’ve gotten up to so far.”

“That’s right,” Renly said, wryly, “how could I forget? You’re a family man.”

Loras shrugged, looking a bit embarrassed and proud. “It’s just how we’ve always been, I suppose.”

“So does that mean you’ll be at your city home, or in the country?” Renly ventured. Although Loras had never mentioned having property in the country, Renly had a strong feeling his family was landed gentry, what with a father in the House of Lords and all.

“Well, this Christmas we’re staying in the city, as always. You might remember the house, where you…” Loras trailed off for a moment, looking slightly shy. “Where you dropped me home, that time.”

“Oh, that’s right, isn’t it?” Renly said vaguely, although he remembered each detail of that evening with perfect, photograph-like clarity. He doubted he would ever forget it.

Loras stared at him for a second with an indecipherable expression, and then smiled lightly and shrugged his shoulders. “Well, we _do_ have a country place. I grew up there playing polo and such, and my sister and I are still quite good on horseback. We used to race all the time when we were little.” He paused. “My oldest brother plays polo professionally now, actually. You’ve probably heard of him—Garlan Tyrell?”

Renly raised his eyebrows, impressed. “My, you’re quite a well-rounded bunch, aren’t you?”

Loras gave that half-embarrassed, half-proud laugh once again. “I suppose. My grandmother says we’re dreadfully stuffy and traditional, but we can’t help it.”

“Well, to each his own.” Renly shuddered. “As for me, I never did enjoy visiting my family’s country home. We were never close, and it was generally ghastly trying to spend any amount of time together. So I envy you that, Loras.”

Loras looked sympathetic. “And what are you doing for New Years’, sir?”

“Renly,” Renly corrected him automatically, and Loras ducked his head, looking embarrassed. Renly thought for a moment of the piles of gala invitations he’d received for that particular night, and sighed. “Oh, you know. There are plenty of things I _might_ be doing.”

Loras nodded again, a tentative smile catching the corners of his mouth. He actually looked, Renly reflected, staring at him, rather nervous. “Yes, I understand you’re very busy. Well… I know this is awfully presumptuous of me,” he began, folding his hands behind his back, “but my family has a New Years’ Party every year, and perhaps—in between all those other things you’ll be doing—perhaps you might stop by. We’re very close,” he added, grinning a bit boldly. “Right in your neighbourhood, really.”

Renly felt his heart lift and skip a beat, as if he was in primary school again and a cute bloke had smiled at him. “Oh, really?” he said, trying to keep his voice cool. “Yes, I’ll—I’ll keep it in mind. Thank you Loras.”

“Of course,” Loras said, with a meaningful smile. “I think it would be a lot more exciting for everyone if you were there. But especially for me.”

Renly leaned forward, unable to stop himself. “Is that so?”

But Loras only smiled at him, with the infuriating look of a man who knew he had his prey cornered and caught. “I’ll leave you an invitation, then.” He nodded toward the tea tray, looking positively angelic. “Don’t let your tea go cold, sir." 

Then he backed out of the room, leaving Renly behind him utterly unable to focus on his work.

* * *

Renly walked around as if on a cloud for the next few days, smiling discreetly at Loras every time they crossed paths as if the two of them shared a particularly delightful secret. All his countless briefings and meetings were underscored by the tantalizing promise (well, possibility) of something very exciting on New Years’ Eve, and Renly found himself in unflappably good humour. He simply couldn’t stop smiling, as much as he tried to restrain it. It was absolutely wonderful.

And then, three days later, it all went to shit.

At the mixer for the various E.U. dignitaries, everyone was mingling and talking in the Pillared Room. Casual events like this were held every month at 10 Downing Street. As this was a technically a holiday reception, the room was filled with conversations about the years’ sports results and international tourism as opposed to the touchier subjects of, say, the value of the euro. Although most politicians cared little for this sort of “filler” event, Renly enjoyed them on a purely social level. He moved from group to group, making polite small talk with Sweden, Portugal, and Norway before migrating on to France and Ireland; and it was just as Ireland was listing the merits of the holiday work-study visa for students that Renly noticed that he hadn’t seen Loras in quite a while.

He glanced about the room several times to make sure that he wasn’t mistaken, then excused himself from the conversation with a smile and a few quick words. It was odd for Loras to just disappear like that—he and his fellow deputy chief of staff, Susan, had been quite integral to planning this particular reception, coordinating all the various details for the different international dignitaries. It was unlike either of them to be conspicuously absent, but Renly could see Susan in the corner speaking to the ambassador from Greece. After a quick circuit of the room still revealed no Loras, however, Renly shrugged and put the thought from his mind.

Freed for a moment of any conversation, he decided to take the opportunity to head to the loo. The corridor outside the reception room was blissfully empty and Renly drew a deep breath, leaning against the wall. Everything was going quite well, but even someone who enjoyed socializing as much as he did needed the occasional breather. Then he pulled open the washroom door and stepped inside.

The men’s washroom was not empty. Two men stood against the far wall, their bodies close together. Renly didn’t quite notice or understand, at first, and made as if to walk directly to the urinals. Then he suddenly saw that one of the men was Loras, and stopped dead.

The ambassador from Monaco was standing with one hand rested on Loras’s shoulder, head bent like he might be whispering in Loras’ ear. Loras, backed against the wall, had his face screwed up as if in concentration or arousal. There was nothing platonic or gentlemanly about the way they were standing. Renly couldn’t see where Loras’ right hand was.

At the sound of Renly’s shoes clicking on the polished hardwood floor, Loras looked up abruptly, blue eyes gone wide. His face was caught perfectly in shock, and his cheeks were slightly flushed. The ambassador standing behind him only looked sly. _The bastard._ Renly couldn’t concentrate on the stranger’s face enough to make the features stand out in great detail. All he caught was the dark blur of a handsome head, the spreading white of a gleaming smile.

“Pardon me,” Renly said haltingly, backing away. _Oh, God, what are they—_

There was a moment of absolutely frozen silence. Then—

“E-excuse me,” Loras said, pushing past the ambassador. His face growing redder, he walked very quickly past Renly without stopping to say a word, not even making eye contact. Left alone with Renly, the ambassador from Monaco only raised his eyebrows with a knowing smirk, and said nothing.

For a long moment it was just the two of them in the washroom. Even though they were meeting eyes, Renly would not have been able to pick the other man out in a crowd. The stranger was hardly a person, not even a name (Renly suddenly couldn’t remember, his famous memory for names deserting him, what the other man was called)—he was just someone horrible who had stood beside Loras, and made Renly doubt everything he’d previously believed. Because what did he know, really, about Loras? About the two of them? About any of this? 

Renly cleared his throat. “Let’s go back to the party, then, shall we?” he said to the ambassador, in a voice that sounded like not his own. The words echoed loudly in the tiled room between them.

* * *

The next day, Saturday, Renly couldn’t concentrate at all. There was a thousand pressing matters that he should have been thinking about, but the image of Loras’s face as it had looked last night was burned into his mind. He couldn’t think of anything else.

“Cortnay,” he said slowly, once he had finally given in and summoned his Chief of Staff. Cortnay hovered at the edge of his desk, looking calm and utterly competent, but even his untroubled presence couldn’t soothe Renly’s mind. Renly cleared his throat, trying to summon up a neutral tone of voice, and continued.

“I’ve been thinking—why don’t we lessen the staff around here a few days early? Send some of the deputy staff home earlier; tell them they don’t have to come in starting Monday. It’s nearly Christmas, after all.”

Cortnay nodded. “That’s very thoughtful of you, sir.”

Renly swallowed hard. “Also… ah, don’t take this the wrong way, it’s just a weird personality thing. But you know Loras, the deputy chief of staff? Would it be possible to… look into redistributing him, after the holiday?”

He felt awful saying it. But Cortnay only stared at him for a moment, and then nodded without a shred of judgment or emotion in his eyes. 

“Certainly, sir. It’s done.”

 

 


	3. Christmas Eve

#  _Christmas Eve_

 

  

**Jon**

Just as it had during every winter holiday Jon had spent at Winterfell, time flew by and before Jon knew it, Christmas Eve was upon them. Suddenly it was the evening of the 24th and he, Robb, Dany, Sansa, and Theon were seated around the bonfire pit behind Winterfell, drinking beer and roasting potatoes and marshmallows. After Robb had bummed a fag from Theon, Theon was wholeheartedly taking the piss out of Robb for being a doctor and still smoking. “Ain’t that unhealthy, mate?” Theon was prodding, leaning forward with an insouciant gleam in his eye. “Now who’s going to set an example for us all?” Jon wrapped both hands around his beer, watching. _Still such a wanker… some things never change._

Robb just grinned. “Not so bad if it’s only once in a while, I reckon.” Then, faced by an entire circle of incredulous scrutiny, he groaned and gave a few laughing waves of his arm in defeat. “Yeah, _yeah_ , I’m trying to give it up. That’s my New Year’s resolution.”

Theon laughed. “Figures. And what’re your New Year’s resolutions, Dany? Saving the world, feedin’ children an’ stuff? Better off than Don Draper over here, at any rate.”

With that, Theon leaned over and flicked Robb’s cigarette away, leaving his good friend staring at him in disbelief. “Thanks, mate,” Robb said, giving him a light punch on the arm. Dany laughed softly, saying nothing.

“ _My_ resolution, see,” said Theon, sighing heavily, “is to get laid.” He shook his head with a grievous air, then took a giant drag on his own cigarette. “I’ve had nothing. All year, nothing.”

“How terrible for you,” Sansa said primly, in exactly the tone that Jon would have used. Not that he _would_ have said anything, though, as that might have provoked Theon to howl with laughter and whip back with some response about “Jon, professional virgin,” which had been Theon’s horribly accurate pet name for Jon all through high school. The thought of that kind of embarrassment in front of Dany was not something Jon wanted to think about.

“Doctor, doctor, you’ve got to help me,” Theon burst out, flicking away the butt of his cigarette and clutching Robb’s arm dramatically. “I’ve got a mad case of,” he indicated his crotch, writhing, “blue balls. It _burns_ , Doc, it burns.”

Everyone groaned loudly. Undeterred, Theon turned to Sansa and winked. “What d’you say, Sans? Fancy a go?”

Looking disgusted, Sansa got to her feet. “My god, Theon. Bugger off.” She pressed her mittened hands together with the bearing of a princess and added, “I’m going inside. ‘Night, everyone, and Happy Christmas—nearly, that is.” Drawing her jacket more tightly around her, she trudged off towards the back door of the house. “ _Not_ to you, Theon!” she added haughtily over her shoulder.

“I’m always open for business, y’know!” Theon shouted after her, and didn’t seem all put off by the sound of the back door slamming in the distance. “In case you change your mi—ow!” He clutched his shoulder, snapping his head around to gaze at Robb with a pitiful expression.

“Theon, that’s vile,” Robb said firmly, gritting his teeth only a little.

“Was only kidding, mate,” Theon muttered. Then he turned and batted his pale eyelashes at Dany. “Hullo, Dany. Bet you’ve got some fit friends worth my time. Those bridesmaids of yours, eh? I still dream about them sometimes. _Special_ dreamin’, if you understand what I mean.”

“So Robb tells me you’re single,” Dany said to him, with straight-faced sympathy. She reached forward to stir the embers with a stick. “I can’t possibly imagine why.”

Jon snorted, biting back his laugh, and Dany glanced over at him in appreciative, warm collusion for a moment. With a huff of breath and outsize eyeroll, Theon turned to Robb, commandeering all Robb’s attention for the moment. “Robb, d’you…”

“ _Do_ you have any New Year’s resolutions? Aside from what you said at dinner,” Jon asked Dany quietly, leaning forward and extending his hands towards the fire.

She turned to him and smiled, looking pleased to be asked. “Yeah, I’ve got loads more actually. But they’re all pretty boring.”

“Help others, be a better person?”

Dany smiled a bit self-deprecatingly. “Well, something like that. Have you got any?”

“No,” he said honestly. “I always end up breaking them anyway.”

“Oh,” she said lightly, moving forward into the light of the flames to stir the embers again. Dany liked fire; she was the one who’d expertly banked this one, shooing both Jon and Robb away when they’d feebly tried to help. She turned to look at him again, gaze hot in the blue smoke curling off the fire. “That’s funny. I sort of pegged you for someone with plenty of willpower.”

Jon swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “I—I do. At least, I’d like to think I do.”

She smiled at him, eyes glinting. “I thought so.”

He couldn’t breathe. _She knows. She fucking knows._

“Just not about New Years’ resolutions, eh?” Dany added lightly, and turned away. Robb and Theon suddenly seemed to come into sharp focus again, and Jon’s heart started beating again as he returned to the real world, or what was increasingly feeling like a painful facsimile thereof.

 

**Tyrion**

Walking with Shae had been awfully nice, actually. Tyrion had talked about his problems, and Shae had listened: really listened, with a deep and profound silence that betrayed nothing. It was impossible to tell if she was absorbing what he said impartially or with a deep sense of scorn and judgement, but Tyrion found that he didn’t care. When Shae finally did voice her opinions she was unusually blunt, but Tyrion appreciated her brand of advice. For several days he was able to do nothing but read and work, staying relatively focused and clear-minded.

By Christmas Eve, though, Tyrion had lapsed into melancholy once again. _Alone on Christmas Eve_ … pathetic. On the bright side, he thought as he pawed through the liquor cabinet, at least he wasn’t forced to spend this holiday with his family. That was nightmare material right there.

Shae found him slumped on the living room cradling his second half-empty bottle of red, listening to Leonard Cohen on repeat. She was wearing a soft black coat, heels, a scarf and gloves, and a lot of makeup on her eyes. She must have let herself in, but he hadn’t heard the door.

“You are really sitting here drinking alone by yourself?” She stepped around the sofa and stood there gazing at him, her expression inscrutable. “Again?”

“You look nice,” Tyrion said, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “Going somewhere?”

Shae ignored that. “I think maybe all you do is drink. I’m worried about you.”

Tyrion shrugged, staring up at her. “Well, for reasons unforeseen, I am here _alone_.”

Shae raised her eyebrows at him. “ _C’est la vie_. You should not just sit here feeling sorry for yourself.”

“Did you just say _c’est la vie_? What are you, a walking cliché?”

Shae scoffed and rolled her eyes. “I’m French, this is France, we speak French here. I was going to invite you to come to dinner tonight at my brother’s restaurant. But if that’s too _French_ for you, perhaps I should just go and leave you alone here.”

He thought about it. Did he really want to sit here in the dark, eating the remains of a baguette and the rest of the Camembert in the fridge? “No! No, I’ll go. Thank you.”

They sat at a table for two at the restaurant, which was pleasantly full. A few people turned to give Tyrion second looks as they came in, but Shae didn’t seem to notice. She slid into her chair after removing her coat, revealing a black turtleneck. “You look lovely,” said Tyrion, smiling at her. Why did it feel so awkward to be out, alone, with a woman? Well, for two years he hadn’t seen anyone but Tysha. And before that… he’d been more of a one-night stand kind of man.

Shae afforded him a small smile. “Thank you.” Then she turned and called for her brother, who came over slowly, eyeing Tyrion like he wasn’t sure what to make of him. Shae’s brother was dark just like her, and he had a quick smile that didn’t always seem quite genuine—just like Shae’s. Tyrion greeted with him a shit-eating grin, remembering how the asshole had given Tyrion the once-over on their first meeting.

“Forgive him,” Shae said, noticing. “He’s very provincial.”

Tyrion gave her a sharp look. She shrugged. “I noticed. Plus, I grew up with him. He’s always been—how do you say?—a bit of a prick.”

That made Tyrion laugh. “Thank you,” he said after they’d ordered, leaning forward. “For taking me out. You really didn’t have to.”

Shae just smiled that sphinx-like smile again, puffing on her cigarette. “Don’t seem so grateful,” she said at last, lacing her fingers together. “It makes you seem desperate, and that’s very unattractive.”

There were many people at the restaurant, but it stayed full late into the night. Like everyone else, Shae and Tyrion ended up lingering for a long time even after they’d finished their meal. They lit cigarettes and smoked, savoring the remains of their chocolate galette and red wine.

“This is nice,” she said finally, her voice throaty with the wine. “Usually I am serving. So it’s nice to be served for once.”

Tyrion downed the rest of his wine. “That so? You work here too? So you’re not just a housekeeper.”

Shae smiled. “Yes, I do work here, and no, I’m not just a housekeeper. I do live with my brother, though.”

Tyrion paused. He realised suddenly that, while he had been sharing his woes with Shae for days, he hardly knew anything about her. Now, that wasn’t very gentlemanly.

“So how long has that been going on?” he asked. “I know that on the Continent people tend to be closer to their family and all… but I think I might gouge my eyes out before living with my siblings. Well, both of them, that is.” _Jaime alone wouldn’t be so bad… before all of that happened._

Shae shrugged. “Only two years. I used to live in Paris.”

Tyrion widened his eyes. “Paris? What made you leave? You seem like more of a big city girl.”

“Do I?” Shae said enigmatically. She shrugged, and flicked away the ashes of her cigarette. “Paris didn’t treat me very well. So I’m back here for now, for better or for worse. Isn’t that what you English say?”

Tyrion nodded, not saying anything. For tonight, at least, he could learn to let things rest.

 

 

 **Sansa**  

On Christmas Eve morning, Sansa had woken up with one hand on her phone and the other tangled in Margaery’s necklace.

She’d found the tiny pendant in her things when she’d unpacked at Winterfell—it had probably been on her jewellery table when she’d packed at her flat, left over from when she’d borrowed it from Margaery sometime too long ago to remember. It was beautiful, a tiny gold fleur-de-lis on a golden chain, and under normal circumstances she would have texted Margaery to laugh about the mix-up. Now, though, compelled by something she couldn’t name, Sansa had wordlessly fastened the necklace around her own neck and worn it for nearly two weeks.

All things told, despite the lack of speaking to Margaery, it had been a really nice Christmas Eve. Everyone was so happy to be home, they all stayed busy. Bran, Rickon, and Jon had spent the day playing Final Fantasy and arguing over the storylines; Jon had also been teasing the latest issue of _The Night’s Watch_ for Arya, Gendry, and Bran to their collected delight. Sansa had gone for a nature walk with her parents and Dany, and they’d all politely pretended to listen as Ned enthusiastically explained the differences in the various types of winter lichens native to the area (her dad was a bit of a survivalist nut). Then they’d all wound up in the kitchen, preparing dinner as a joint effort, and it had been very good indeed. Minus Robb’s laddish friend Theon, it was a really lovely day.

Now, in the comfortable darkness of 10:30 pm, Sansa was curled up with a mug of mulled wine next to her mum by the fire in the living room. It was so cosy with all the blankets around them, and outside they could hear everyone joking and laughing by the bonfire. Sansa’s mum was recounting stories from when she and Sansa’s dad were young and even though Sansa had heard them dozens of times before, she loved hearing them again and again and found them as comforting as a lullaby.

Eventually some shouting outside and splattering against the windows let them know that Arya had apparently returned from sledding with Gendry and started a snowball fight. Catelyn laughed softly and shook her head. “Oh, Arya.”

“Dad seems so happy about Christmas,” Sansa said sleepily.

Catelyn smiled. “Well, you know he just loves the holidays. Mostly, though,” she continued, with a warm confidential air, “he just loves having everyone home. It means to much to him to have all of you here with us.”

Sansa felt warm inside. “It’s really nice to be home, Mum.”

Catelyn stroked her hair. “It’s so nice to have you here, sweetheart.” There was a moment of silence; the fire crackled and popped. Sansa studied her mum’s serene face in the orange glow of the firelight.

She breathed in and out slowly, suddenly wishing that she could tell her mum everything that was on her mind. She really wanted Catelyn’s sage advice on this; she wanted to know what her mum would say if Sansa suddenly told her,  _Mum, I think I’m in love with my best friend, and I don’t know what to do._

Instead she laid her head in her mum’s lap, and they watched the flames of the fire together silence as Catelyn continued to comfortingly stroke Sansa’s hair.

 

 

**Brienne**

“Do you like it, Dad?”

Brienne was at home with her father in the last hours before midnight. They’d gone to dinner at his favorite pub, walked around the village centre to look at the Christmas tree, and then come home for a nightcap and a slice of Brienne’s Christmas fruitcake. She’d made sure to follow her Mum’s recipe exactly.

Tucked into his chair at the tiny kitchen table, Brienne’s father turned to smile fondly at her. “It’s wonderful, Brienne. You always were so good at cooking.” He reached out, liver-spotted fingers shaking slightly, and laid a gentle hand on her face. “Just like your mum.”

She had to turn away, because she could feel her eyes threatening to fill with tears.

If not for her dad, Brienne would never have set foot back on this island. It hadn’t been easy coming up as the tallest girl in school. At age fourteen, she’d basically given up on the idea that any boy would ever fancy her. She’d taken up sports because she was naturally good at them, and because it was one arena in which everyone had to give her grudging respect. She’d wiped the field with everyone in her secondary school, no contest, but it hadn’t stopped the lot of them from calling her nasty names behind her back—and to her face. “Freak” was the kindest of what the local lads had to say about her.

But at home, her parents had been her everything. Her mum taught her how to cook, and she was excellent at it. Once Brienne’s mum realised that Brienne was genuinely interested in these things, she went out of her way to teach little Bri everything she knew. It didn’t matter that Brienne wasn’t womanly to look at; her mum taught her that she could be good at anything she wanted if she only tried hard enough.

Still, Brienne had studied like mad to get off of this tiny island. Her studies and perfect grades had been her ticket out of here, and as soon as she’d gotten her A-Levels she was gone like a shot, first to Leeds University and then anywhere else she could go. She only returned for the occasional holiday to see her parents.

When her mum died last year, though, it had caused to Brienne stop and think. This was her _family_. Was she ever going to have family of her own? She was thirty-six years old, on track to become a senior lecturer at one of the best universities in Britain, living in London. For all effective purposes, her life was going well.

And her dad was happy, she reminded herself. That was the most important thing now.

Brienne had spent a large part of her holiday working quietly on her dissertation at the kitchen table where she’d done all her homework after school growing up, listening to the sound of the telly blaring as her father sipped his tea and watched the football matches. It was sad and nice at the same time. If her mum were still alive, she would have been puttering about the little house straightening up or reading a novel, something she'd always taken great joy in. Her mum was the one who started Brienne on the classics as a little girl, reading aloud with Bri tucked comfortably under her arm. Dickens had been her favourite, and Brienne still felt a heavy wave of nostalgia whenever she opened a well-thumbed copy of _A Tale of Two Cities_ or _Great Expectations._

Her dad cleared his throat, tapping his fork on the edge of his china plate. “Now… you know I don’t want to bother you with these kinds of questions. But are you seeing anyone, Brienne?”

 _That_ question. She knew that it was something that all parents asked, and it was supposed to be universally annoying. But it hurt, because Brienne's mum and dad had always been so genuinely concerned. Brienne pressed her mouth into a thin line and shook her head. “No, Dad.”

Her dad looked at her with kind but sharp eyes. “Darling, I’m not trying to pressure you. I know that dating is hard.” He paused before speaking with some difficulty. “But I think that in London people might be kinder than they are here. You’re a very special girl, Brienne, and I just don’t want you to be lonely. Mum and I always wanted you to be happy.”

“I’m not lonely,” Brienne insisted, and the words came out a little rushed. She flushed and looked down at her plate. When she looked up, her dad was still looking at her in that fixed, concentrated way.

“All right, dear,” he said at last, and took another bite of fruitcake. “Delicious,” he said, chewing. “I’m the luckiest man on the island, I reckon, with this kind of cooking at home.”

Brienne smiled, more grateful than she’d anticipated for the change of subject. “It’s nice to be home, Dad,” she said, squeezing her dad’s hand across the table. And, all painful subjects of conversation aside, she really meant it.

 

 


	4. Christmas Day

#  _Christmas Day_

**Tyrion**

The next morning he awoke to a pounding on the front door.

Outside his home in the falling snow stood Shae. She held a carrier bag in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Though there was a carefully neutral expression in her eyes and snow melting in her slightly messy hair, he thought she looked exactly how everything should look on Christmas morning— comfortable, familiar, and imbued with the promise of unknown and infinite possibilities.

“ _Joyeux Noël_ ,” she said, raising her cigarette to her mouth and drawing deeply, and Tyrion let her in without bothering to hide the wry smile that spread across his face.

The snow continued to fall as they prepared breakfast, slipping past the windows in silent heavy sheets. It wasn’t until Tyrion remembered to look that he remembered it was even snowing, and he was abruptly caught by an emotion that felt cripplingly familiar—the cosy morning feeling he used to have with Tysha on all those eternal mornings they’d spent together.

He brewed coffee in contemplative silence as Shae cracked eggs to make an _omelette aux herbes_. Had he even bought those? She must have brought them over on one of her trips. Without his quite noticing, Shae had made herself essential to him in a quiet, non-assuming way. Was that something they taught at housekeeper school, or…?

 _Careful_ , Tyrion warned himself, cursing silently as he burned his hand on the hot part of the espresso machine. _Don’t start thinking like that. She’s not just your housekeeper_. But that thought was also confusing, for if Shae wasn’t just his housekeeper, what was she exactly? What did it mean that he was sharing his Christmas morning with a woman he hardly knew, who he had shared dinner with the previous night but had never slept with—after just ending the only serious relationship of his life?

“Wouldn’t you rather be with your family?” he ventured, once they had finally sat down to plates of eggs and croissants with fresh jam. He watched Shae closely over the kitchen table, trying to gauge her response.

She shook her head, chewing with obvious enjoyment on a bite of omelette. “No. Would you?”

“No,” Tyrion said too quickly, and Shae lowered her fork and laughed at him. It was a laugh without malice, but with a note of understanding. “Sometimes,” she said with a throaty sigh, “it’s better to be with those who don’t know you.”

They went on eating in companionable silence. “What was that you mentioned last night, about living in Paris?” Tyrion asked at last, once they’d put the dishes in the sink and were each savouring their second tiny demitasse of espresso.

Shae sighed again. “It’s not exactly a story for Christmas Day. It is not a happy story.”

“Christ, there’s no such thing as a happy story,” Tyrion said scornfully, which earned him a full laugh from his breakfast companion. She looked at him with amused curiosity in her dark eyes. “Oh ho? And who are you to cast such judgment on the world?”

“Easy,” he said, waggling both eyebrows at her. “I’m a literary critic.”

She laughed, as he’d hoped she would. “And that means… what, exactly?” Shae paused, setting her tiny cup on its saucer. “You know, Tyrion, I’ve seen you do a lot of work with a lot of paper and all those books, but I can’t say I understand what your job is.”

“My job,” said Tyrion, “because you’re so extremely interested in hearing about it, is this. I write reviews of books. That’s it.”

Shae pursed her lips. “That’s it?”

“Well… yes.” She hardly seemed impressed, so Tyrion tried to explain a bit further. “I’ll summarize the book in my reviews, certainly, but I write more about critical essence and how good I found the book to be.”

Shae shook her shoulders in a little gesture of impatience as if to say, _And that’s all?_ “But who cares to know what you think about these books? Who pays you?”

 _Ah, nothing like defending my esoteric chosen field over a nice cup of coffee in the morning._ “Well, literary journals and publications.”

“Like the newspapers?”

Tyrion cracked a smile at that. “No—it’s, ah, a little more limited in audience than that. These journals are mostly read by writers and academics interested in the books I’m reviewing, which are generally fiction, short stories, and poetry.”

“But _why_ is this a job? Being paid to write to say if a book is good or bad?” Shae frowned, wrinkling her nose. “What kind of world is it that people can’t just read books for themselves to see if they are good or bad?”

 _Someone’s getting rather existential, isn’t she?_ “Well, time, for one,” Tyrion said helpfully. “No one has time—or the inclination, if I can be perfectly frank with you—to read the kinds of books I review. I reckon I save plenty of people loads of trouble.” He shrugged modestly. “But I’m just doing my bit.”

“That’s true,” Shae conceded, looking rather doubtful. She seemed dissatisfied by this answer, and it somehow made Tyrion feel he was doing the entire process of literary discourse a disservice by adequately failing to express its purpose to this one unimpressed Frenchwoman. Then he had an idea.

“Maybe you can help me,” he suggested, giving her an inviting smile. “Would you like to take a look at of those books? Maybe you can tell me what you think.”

Shae considered for a moment, and then shrugged. “Here,” Tyrion said, gesturing for them to go into the living room. There he indicated the unwieldy pile of books overwhelming the sideboard. “Take your pick.”

Seating herself on the sofa, Shae opened one of the books at random and began to read with quick concentration, dark eyes darting avidly across the page. Then she raised her head to gaze at Tyrion with an expression bordering on disgust.

“This is so boring. I think I finally understand why you are always drinking so much.”

Tyrion laughed outright. “Everyone’s a critic.”

“Get me the wine,” Shae said without preamble. Tyrion paused, confused in spite of himself, and she looked at him as if he might be daft. “If I’m going to finish this book, I’m going to need a lot of wine to get through it.”

Tyrion brought her the wine, and then banked the fire in the living room fireplace as Shae slowly read with a look of steady concentration, knees tucked up under an afghan and a glass of red cradled in one hand. After a while he joined her, seated at the opposite end of the sofa. He had plenty of work to do but given that it was Christmas, he decided instead to read one of the books he’d brought for pleasure, Murakami’s _1Q84_. They stayed like that in silence for hours, reading from their respective corners of the sofa as the fire crackled and snow quietly coated the world outside.

He thought it might be the best Christmas he’d ever had.

 

 

 **Margaery**  

“I’m only saying,” her grandmother declared, tipping back her third glass of mimosa, “that in the 1960s the House of Lords could not have been a single bit more stuck up their own arses than they are today. Not one single bit!”

The entire Tyrell family was ensconced at the breakfast table. Garlan had made Belgian waffles; Margaery and Loras had done the pitchers of mimosas because no one was as good at it as they were; and one of Willas’s hour-long mixes oozed over the sound system, composed especially for the family holidays. They’d been listening since early that morning when Dad had insisted on playing that awful Robert Baratheon single, the one that had just pulled off a surprise upset and made it to Christmas #1. (Despite Dad’s protests that War Hammer was one of the finest bands in rock history and he was only being a devoted fan, he was swiftly stripped of all music-playing privileges and Willas had mercifully taken charge.)

Now Mace Tyrell was chuckling so merrily he looked like he might burst like an overripe grape. “Oh, Mother,” he said, his face ruddy, “you shouldn’t speak ill of Dad."

“Well, a fat lot of good the two of you have done for the nation, even put together,” Olenna said loudly.

Margaery laughed outright at the look on her dad’s face, and poured a bit more maple syrup over her mango and kiwi-strewn waffles. So far, winter break had been totally brilliant. She loved spending time with her family. She’d really missed her elder brothers all term, not to mention her grandmother and her parents, and it was always such a treat coming home to their gorgeous townhouse (especially since Margaery hadn’t been back since September, when she’d started sharing a flat with Sansa at university—enough said).

But amid all this family happiness, something was bothering her, too. Loras had come home the night before last looking utterly crushed. “Something happened,” he’d said. “With the Prime Minister.” Then he’d refused to say anything more.

Margaery couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her brother look so distressed, and did her sisterly best to cheer him up. She and Loras had gone to afternoon tea with their grandmother at the Cadogan, trading gossip from all their respective corners, and then finished up holiday shopping on Bond Street. As a rule, she and her big brother did their best shopping when they were together, so they’d picked out the perfect presents for each member of their family in a joint effort. At Harvey Nichols, Loras had helped Margaery select a series of possible dresses for their New Years’ Party; she’d sat on the floor of Thom Sweeney’s showroom, cooing encouragement as he and Garlan got fitted for new suits, both looking more handsome than God. As a rule, all the Tyrells liked to see and be seen, and Margaery had decided that going out and about would be the best cure for whatever it was that ailed Loras.

Her efforts had seemed to work. Now, as she watched her brother across the table, he seemed quite happy. _Good_. He was talking loudly with Garlan, who was in the middle of telling a funny behind-the-scenes story about his last go-round at The Queen’s Cup. His wife, Leonette, rested a hand on her protruding pregnant belly and smiled at what he was saying (even though she’d doubtless heard it dozens of times before).

They had already opened the first round of gifts as was their tradition, bright and early in the morning as soon as everyone got up. The most impressive of the presents, a genuine, gorgeous Rothko painting, now rested against the wall of the sunlit breakfast room. (Dad had made a killing at Sotheby’s, apparently; Mummy’s weakness was art, and he always gave her pieces on major holidays.) Loras had opened the set of teacups Margaery had gotten him as a housewarming present for his new flat, each one emblazoned with ‘Slut’, ‘Whore’, ‘Slag’, and ‘Cunt’. (He loved them, of course.) Willas had gotten, from all his siblings collectively, a massive collectible Taschen book on the history of British music (for a DJ who dealt primarily in house mixes, he was a total fanatic about music history). Margaery herself had gotten a beautiful pendant necklace of white gold, pearls, and diamonds from her parents and grandmother together, an heirloom gift remade from an old brooch of Olenna’s. Her grandmother, as always, had imperiously refused presents on the grounds that she wanted for nothing except for secrets, and no one had dared to defy her.

All in all, it was shaping up to be a brilliant Christmas, and it wasn’t even noon yet. In Margaery’s pyjama pocket, her mobile buzzed with a text; Margaery hastily pulled it out, and smiled widely when she saw who had sent it.

 

 **Happy Christmas! :)**  

 

**Same to you.**

 

**Get anything good this year?**

 

She hesitated before sending it.

 

**You’re my present this year, Sansa.**

 

She meant it, cheeky as it might sound. Having Sansa as a roommate—well, flatmate, technically—had really spoiled Margaery. She’d grown accustomed to seeing Sansa almost every single day; she was used to the two of them studying together, getting each other coffee in the morning, wandering into each other’s rooms to borrow clothes or makeup only to end up getting distracted and talking for hours. 

She sighed, gripping the stem of her champagne flute more tightly as she settled back in her chair. There was something so adorable about Sansa, unlike any girl Margaery had ever been keen on before. Sansa’s naïveté was charming, oddly attractive even, and she could do the cutest things without even realizing that she was doing them. She also seemed totally unaware of Margaery’s innuendoes, which was strangely refreshing. When Margaery had told Sansa she was bi— _such a lie… a more appropriate way to put it would be 99% into girls but not above dating a guy for prestige and reputation_ —Sansa had looked awed, not suggestive. “That’s so glamorous,” she’d said. And they’d continued having movie nights cuddled up close like nothing more than secondary school schoolgirls, and Margaery had strangely enjoyed it.

 **I miss you** was Sansa’s response. Margaery felt her face light up with a smile. True, they still hadn’t talked about what had happened the last time they’d seen each other—still hadn’t even properly addressed it—but somehow, Margaery felt like everything for the two of them was going to be all right. Somehow, even if Sansa was totally freaked out by what Margaery had initiated, everything would turn out just fine.

“Cheers,” she said loudly, interrupting whatever conversations had been going on at the table. She raised her glass to her family, suddenly feeling incredibly buoyant and happy. Smiling, they raised their glasses to her in response.

Happy Christmas, indeed.

 

 

**Cersei**

Cersei gripped her wineglass even more tightly. She’d only been here an hour, and already Aunt Genna had managed to get in three jabs about her age, ask twice if she had plans to get remarried, and insinuated very heavily that Cersei was old goods that no man in his right mind would want. Uncle Kevan, passing through the kitchen to rummage through the fridge for beer, had patted her on the bottom and said brightly that she still looked good for all that. Her own father had come in looking as if Christmas spirit were something he’d never heard of, given her a curt nod as a hello, and gone immediately into the den to pour himself a stiff drink.

She’d even dressed up for the damn thing, armoured herself in Antonio Berardi red and a dark brown sable fur vest, red lipstick, put her long blonde hair up in an elegant twist. But here she felt just as undervalued as she always did with her family.

At least Tommen and Myrcella seemed to be having a good time, playing with the other Lannister cousins around the Christmas tree. The three of them had had such a lovely morning in their flat, waking up early to open presents and have Christmas brunch replete with sweets from La Cigale, Cersei’s favorite place in Kensington. Tommen and Myrcella were so genuinely happy to get their gifts. They were such good children, so easy; they took after Jaime in that respect. Myrcella had given her a novel, a cosy cashmere throw, and several films to watch together, and Tommen had given her a stuffed lion. It was awfully cute, really. She had to admit that things certainly were easier without Joffrey around. No fits, no nastiness, no siblings tormenting each other. Joff had always been a little high-strung in that way.

Cersei sighed, reflecting. She’d spent five Christmases as a single mother. When she’d still been with Robert, she’d considered the holiday a victory if they didn’t start fighting before noon. It was good, of course, that they’d separated—she knew it wasn’t right for the children to see all of that. Not to mention that Robert had been up to his eyeballs in drugs and booze: holidays with him had usually ended up being a countdown to when he’d inevitably pass out.

This year, though, Robert had actually remembered to send presents for the children. He’d even included something for Cersei—a set of concert DVDs for Sade and George Michael, her old favourites from when they were together. It made her actually sad for a moment, nostalgic for the early days of her relationship with Robert, when he had been so handsome and everything between them had been so electric and _sexy_. They would fuck all night, fight like cats and dogs the next day, and then he would make it up to her by sending endless gifts—flowers, expensive jewelry, all things she liked. You’d never think that a rock star could be so thoughtful. Of course, that thoughtfulness was something that Robert had carefully developed as practice for juggling all his girlfriends. That was something that Cersei only learned later, and much too late.

 _God_ , she felt so alone. This wasn’t how you were supposed to feel on Christmas Day. Here she was surrounded by her family—and her children, she mustn’t forget her sweet and beautiful children—and yet she felt so unwanted and unloved. She had downed three glasses of wine, not to mention the few she’d had in the car coming over, and her headache was still pounding. Usually wine made her feel better, not worse, but the situation was clearly dire. There was only thing that could make her feel better.

Finishing her glass with methodical precision (no need to savour the taste, it was one of Genna’s shitty store-bought bottles), Cersei poured herself another. “Excuse me,” she said to Aunt Genna with a strained smile. Her aunt, busy making the turkey or some such, hardly even spared Cersei a glance as she got up and exited the kitchen.

She wandered through the apartment, full glass in hand, and Lannisters scattered as she went. Cersei found her brother in the living room, sitting on the sofa before the Christmas tree. Tommen was on the ground trading Pokémon cards with his cousins in front of the crackling fire. She paused in the doorway. Apparently Jaime was discussing the literary merits of different young adult novels with Myrcella.

“The thing is,” Jaime was saying very adamantly, “is that the entire Narnia series doesn’t count as a straightforward hero journey because it’s all allegorical. Aslan standing in for the Christ figure means that the Pevensie children’s journey isn’t about completing a hero arc, it’s about becoming better Christians.”

“But they’re so bloody good!” said Myrcella, with equal passion. “I read the whole series and had no idea that that they were about Christianity!”

Jaime tsked. “That’s because you weren’t brought up religious, but let me assure you, they’re quite Christian. As a young woman, there are much better hero stories you could be reading. Have you ever heard of _His Dark Materials_ by Philip Pullman? It’s about—”

Cersei cleared her throat and stepped forward. “Jaime, might I have a word?”

Both of them looked up at her with identical stunned looks of surprise, and Cersei felt something soften in her. You could absolutely tell that Myrcella was Jaime’s daughter, if you saw them like that. They both liked books so much, too. He would fit so perfectly into their family, if he would just come back, and…

“Of course,” Jaime said after a moment, putting on a forced smile. He nodded at Myrcella. “I’ll be right back, ‘Cella.”

“Okay, Uncle Jaime.”

Cersei’s brother came around the sofa and approached her, raising his eyebrows. “Well?”

Cersei sucked in her breath, and shot a look towards the balcony that opened at the end of the hall. They stepped through the French doors onto the balcony, and Cersei carefully closed the door behind them. She didn’t want any witnesses to their conversation.

“What were you and Myrcella talking about?” she asked lightly.

“Just books,” Jaime answered, looking at her. “She’s very bright, that girl.”

She smiled at him. “She takes after you in that way, darling.”

Jaime didn’t say anything. His face looked almost pained. He turned away from her, and then shivered. “Cersei, it’s bloody freezing out here. What is it you wanted to say?”

She fumbled in her clutch, her fingers shaking. “I need a cigarette, have you got a light?”

Silently, Jaime produced a lighter. She held out her cigarette, and he cupped his hands around it to block the wind, before lighting it for her the way he’d always done when they were teenagers. The hit of nicotine burned in her throat; it made her feel more alive, and she straightened up, looking him in the eye to say what she wanted to say.

“Jaime, I miss you.”

He didn’t say anything. Then he sighed. “Cersei, I…”

“You never come to see me. Don’t you want to be with me any more?”

He seemed to be struggling for words. “You were with Robert. I couldn’t be with you like that any more, Cersei.”

“That ended! It’s over. It’s been over for years. I never loved him the way I love you. I miss you, and I want to see you.”

Jaime wouldn’t meet her eyes; he was looking out over the snowy panorama of London. Unwillingly, she turned to look too.

It was beautiful. Snow drifted lazily down over the buildings; the view from Uncle Kevan and Aunt Genna’s penthouse apartment afforded a stunning view of the Thames, and Cersei could even make out the London Eye in the distance. But none of it was as beautiful as her twin brother, if he would just look at her for one damn minute and stop avoiding her eyes.

Jaime turned to her so suddenly that she startled, taking a step back. His voice was hoarse. “I waited for you, you know. All those years when we were young.”

Cersei felt choked up. _I knew it._ He still felt for her. “I know,” she said softly.

“I would’ve married you,” he went on, staring at her intensely. His eyes almost looked a little wet.

Her heart fell a little bit, and she felt suddenly irritated. _He’s still acting like a child, after all this time?_ “Don’t be bloody stupid, Jaime. You know things never could have been that way.” Marriage wasn’t possible for them—it just wasn’t. Perhaps they could have things another way, some other way, but marriage was not an option nor could it ever be.

Her brother didn’t say anything for a moment. “I didn’t think it was stupid,” he said at last, and his voice was rough. He turned away, stepped towards the door. With a surge of panic and desperation in her chest, Cersei grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and physically held him back from leaving her.

“Jaime, please. Don’t you love me any more?” she said tearfully.

Her brother looked at her, his green eyes dulled. “Of course I love you, Cersei. You’re my sister.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she said, desperate now.

Jaime just shook his head. He looked immensely tired. “I can’t give you what you want. Not any more.”

“Don’t leave me,” she cried. “Please, Jaime. Please.”

But Jaime didn’t listen. He turned and walked away, leaving her alone behind him, shivering in the London cold.

 

 

**Jaime**

“Jesus bloody Christ,” he muttered, wrapping his suit jacket more tightly around himself as he headed inside. His good mood, his Christmas cheer, whatever the hell you called it, was all entirely ruined.

His bloody sister. Couldn’t she realise that he’d given her all of his love for nearly forty years, and had to force himself out of love so that he could keep on living some semblance of his own life?

Stewing in his own thoughts, Jaime had to stop short when his father appeared from nowhere and stepped in front of him. “Jaime, a word.”

 _Christ, him too?_ “I actually was going to finish a conversation with Myrcella,” he managed to say, angling his body away from his father’s.

Tywin looked at him with light eyes, the expression on his face so disdainful that it didn’t warrant an answer. Swallowing his retort, Jaime dropped his shoulders and followed his father into Uncle Kevan’s study, feeling like no more than a little boy being chastised.

Tywin shut the door behind him and walked around behind the heavy oaken desk. “Something to drink?” he said, gesturing to the sideboard.

“Please,” Jaime said through his teeth. Alcohol may well be the only thing that was going to get him through this fucking day.

His father stood pouring drinks from a cut-glass decanter. He handed Jaime a glass, and then appraised Jaime carefully with his pale eyes. “I wanted to speak to you about Tyrion.”

Jaime shut his eyes hard for a moment. _Really?_ “Have you heard from him?”

Tywin looked at him neutrally. “I was going to ask you the same question.”

He frowned. “So, you haven’t heard from him?”

“No.”

“Well, neither have I,” Jaime answered tersely. He took a long pull of his drink, feeling it burn in his chest as it went down. “Not since you sent me on that errand from hell, breaking him up with his fiancée.”

His father’s face was frozen as if in a mask. For a moment Jaime thought he was going to snap at Jaime for Jaime’s insolence, but Tywin didn’t rise to the bait. “I sincerely doubt,” he said after a moment, each word chilly and spare, “that my actions had anything to do with destroying anything serious.”

Jaime breathed out through his nose, willing himself not to lose his temper.

“Well,” Tywin continued, “if you haven’t heard from him, I’m sure he’s off in some whorehouse somewhere, drinking away his sorrows. He’ll have some new tramp in a few weeks.”

“Why can’t you just let him be happy?” Jaime burst out. “He really did love that girl. And that’s all she was, just a girl. Not a gold-digger, not a whore, as you’re so obsessed with saying. Just a girl. She wanted to be a writer like Tyrion.”

Tywin’s face could have been made of stone. “He is a Lannister. He needs to live up to the family reputation.”

“I don’t believe that,” Jaime said, his voice cold with fury. “I think you just don’t want him to be happy.”

“How _dare_ you speak to me that way.” His father’s voice was ice.

Jaime met his father’s eyes, and held their gaze for a long, steady moment. “It’s true, Father.”

His father drew himself up, cold mounting fury in his eyes. “Jaime—”

He didn’t want to hear it. He was no longer a child, and his father had already tormented him enough. Jaime slammed his glass down on the desk, got to his feet, and strode out of the study. He could hear his father calling out after him, but Jaime refused to look back. He stormed toward the front door of the apartment.

“Jaime!” His Aunt Genna came hurriedly out of the kitchen as he passed, wearing an apron and an alarmed expression. “You’re not leaving already?”

He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to remember his manners. “Sorry, Aunt Genna,” he said, leaning in to plant a kiss on her heavily rouged cheek even as he was reaching around her for his coat and scarf on the wall hook. “Work calls.”

Jaime had his hand on the doorknob when two voices sounded in unison behind him. “Wait!”

He turned around. Tommen and Myrcella stood there uncertainly, hand in hand, their eyes as big as saucers. Tom was clutching a handful of Pokémon cards, and Myrcella looked sad, but horribly as if in some way she _understood_.

“But, Uncle Jaime,” Myrcella said in a quiet voice, sounding more adult than her own mother, “we haven’t even had Christmas dinner yet.”

His heart squeezed with something he certainly hoped he’d never have to feel again in his life. Shame, guilt, and rage, all at once. He was such a shit person. A shit brother, a shit father.

“Sorry, kiddos,” he said brusquely. “Your presents are under the tree. I have to go.”

Suddenly Cersei appeared behind her children— _their_ children. _Fuck. Fuck._

“Jaime?” she said. Her face was a world of hurt, and of rage. She was wearing red lipstick, and a few pieces of her golden hair fell around her face. She had never looked more beautiful or more impossible to him. _It’s always going to be like this, isn’t it?_ Always, with his fucking family? All he could do was shake his head. There was nothing to say. He had nothing left to say.

He turned, pulled open the heavy front door, and walked out. Behind him, before the door closed, Jaime heard Tommen start to cry.

“I _hate_ Uncle Jaime!”

 

 

**Ned**

“Come on now, let’s get in the car!” Catelyn called, striding purposefully across the snow-dusted yard of the parish church. “Sansa, Arya, let’s go!” Around them, the Christmas Day service-goers streamed from the church.

“I thought it was a lovely service, didn’t you?” Ned said in Catelyn’s ear, coming up behind his wife and wrapping his arms around her. They linked gloved hands, surveying the masses of people together. “Oh, yes,” his wife answered softly, watching as their daughters crossed the yard and got into the backseat of Robb’s car. “Everyone thought it was so nice that you could be there. The vicar made a point to nod at you specially.”

Ned smiled genuinely. He spent so much of his time up in London that it was nice to come back to Wolfsden village and his home municipality. Whenever he wasn’t working he made a point to spend time in the local council, speaking to everyone. Christmas was a wonderful way to greet everyone while also spending time with his family. 

“Is that everyone?” he said, nodding at Bran and Rickon emerging from the church doors in their matching Fulham F.C. scarves. Cat tipped her head back and he kissed her forehead. She smelled like she always did—her fragrance and shampoo, and the ineffable scent of home. “Yes, it is, darling. Let’s go.”

Christmas dinner was wonderful. Per tradition, it was held in the formal dining room, whose tall vaulted stone ceiling dated back to medieval days. There was roast goose and turkey, copious side dishes, some suspiciously strong eggnog courtesy of Arya, and a beautiful Yule log crafted by Jon (who had put his considerable artistic skills to good use and spent hours crafting and painting the marzipan mushrooms alongside Robb’s wife Dany). Everyone had pitched in to help cook, and the dinner truly was a labour of love.

“I’d like to propose a toast,” Ned said, raising his glass. Around the table, everyone’s faces glowed in the light of candles surrounded by wreaths of pine. He smiled at everyone—Robb, Jon, Dany, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon, and of course, Catelyn. Everyone in the world who he cared about was there. “To family.”

“To family,” everyone chorused. Cat reached over and squeezed his hand above the table, pressing a kiss to his fingers. “Happy Christmas, darling,” she said softly, and he repeated the same back to her like a prayer.

The family had just started serving themselves, passing dishes around, when there was a pounding at the door. Cat looked up at Ned sharply. “Now who could that be…?”

Ned pushed back his chair and crossed the carpeted entryway to reach the door. He swung it open and there, standing before him and bearing a great basket of presents, Christmas crackers, and what seemed to be at least a dozen bottles of fine whiskey, was his old mate Robert Baratheon. Behind him in the front yard was parked a dark stretch limousine, whose driver was leaning against the hood with both arms folded across his chest, shivering.

“’Ello, Ned,” Robert said thickly, with what seemed to be equal amounts of scotch and sentimentality.

Ned’s mouth fell open. “Robert? What are you doing here?”

“I do ‘ope I’m not unwelcome,” Robert said. His Southern accent always became more pronounced when he was drinking. Over all the years, that was one thing that had never changed. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

“Well, you know. Only Christmas dinner,” Ned said, but he was beginning to grin in spite of himself.

“See,” said Robert expansively, gesturing with an elbow, and very nearly toppling over, “it’s like this.”

Ned reached out quickly to steady the basket teetering precariously in Robert’s arms. “Right—why don’t we set this down?” Reaching for it, he cursed at how heavy it was. Robert’s impressive strength, if nothing else, appeared to have persisted through all these years. Silently mourning his back, Ned set the basket down on the snowy step and straightened. “Better, yeah?”

Robert hiccoughed. “Thanks.” He steadied himself and seemed to be gathering his thoughts. “Look, Ned, I realise it’s Christmas and all—”

Catelyn’s voice came from the dining room. “Ned, who is it?”

“It’s—it’s, ah, Uncle Robert,” Ned called back. They’d given Robert that epithet long ago, back when he’d been made Robb’s godfather. It seemed easiest. But Robert hadn’t been around Winterfell much lately, and they especially hadn’t expected to see him on Christmas Day. He turned back to Robert. “No worries, mate. Go on.”

“Right. I was having Christmas with my brother, and then I realised, though—God love ‘em—they are my family, they’re not my family like you are, Ned. You’re my mate, you know? I love you, Ned. I really do.”

Ned nodded, understanding suddenly hitting him. “Well… you’re family to me too, Robert. Come on in.”

Arya, Sansa, and Rickon suddenly appeared in the dining room archway. “Uncle Robert!” said Rickon, smiling fit to burst. “Congratulations on your song!”

“Thanks, lad!” Robert boomed. “Give us a hug, then!”

Cat stood up as all of them traipsed back into the dining room, Robert trailing behind them like the returning prodigal son. “Look who’s here!” Ned exclaimed broadly, giving his wife a quick look. But Cat didn’t seem to mind the intrusion on their family Christmas; she was already smiling graciously. “Robert! Hello!” She shot a look in Robb’s direction. “Robb, won’t you please find a chair for Uncle Robert?”

“Won’t that be two chairs?” Robb muttered under his breath, eyeing Robert’s girth. Ned saw Cat elbow him sharply as he passed. “Of course, Mum.”

“How’s my Robb Star?” Robert said to him, grinning broadly. Ned saw his oldest son wince slightly and then, bless him, come forward to accept a hug from his godfather. That nickname had persisted ever since Robb had used to play air guitar as a tiny child with Robert.

“I’m doing well, Uncle Robert,” Robb said, smiling. “It’s so nice to see you. Er, excuse me—I’ve just got to go fetch some more chairs.”

 

 

**Jon**

After dinner it was time to open large gifts. Everyone clustered in the living room around the giant tree, crowding onto sofas, chairs, and the floor. A roaring fire lit the chimney grate, and Christmas oldies softly played from the BBC station. Catelyn started to pass out presents from underneath the tree, Sansa was busily taking pictures of everyone on her mobile, and everyone else was occupied sipping eggnog or tea.

Having Uncle Robert there wasn’t as strange as Jon had expected. He knew that Uncle Robert had been in love with his mum—well, that was a bit weird, admittedly—but Robert had always been very nice to Jon. This year Robert had brought massive armfuls of gifts for everyone, as if to make up for his unannounced arrival. “How do they know each other again?” Dany asked quietly, eyeing Robert as he double-fisted glasses of eggnog and heartily pushed Ned into repeated toasts. She leaned back against the sofa, looking at him and Robb questioningly.

“They were university mates,” Jon explained softly, “back in the day.”

“Yeah, I still can’t believe Uncle Robert got into Oxford,” Robb muttered, and they all stifled snorts of amusement. “’Course he fried his brain on cocaine in ‘80s, he could have been bloody brilliant before that for all we know…”

Jon was exceedingly pleased with his gifts. Arya looked on, beaming, as Jon and Robb opened their mix tapes. He had to hand it to Arya—the tapes were perfectly curated with everything from Arcade Fire to Haim, and he already itched to go load his (and Robb’s, if he could nick it for five minutes) onto his laptop.

Sansa had gotten everyone a load of books from the university bookshop: Bran, who eagerly collected all of Sansa’s old assigned literature, got a collection of classic novels; Jon himself got a really fantastic coffee-table book on the artistic development of Marvel characters (Sansa had marked the section about Black Widow specially, with several stars and smiley faces that could only mean she was hinting for a rendering of herself); Catelyn got a really boring-looking hardback of literary criticism, but by the way she gasped and exclaimed over it and started eagerly discussing it with her daughter, it was clearly the hottest new thing in literary circles. Which was cool, if you were into that sort of thing. (Jon wasn’t.)

Jon had done a digital rendering specially for Ned, and was pleased to see that Ned really seemed to like it. That wasn’t the only artistic gift of the night. Dany looked at the collage that Arya had made with Jon’s help—Dany in her wedding gown and Robb in his tux, cut out and surrounded by magazine clippings and intricate patterns done in ink, and couldn’t stop exclaiming over it. “Arya,” Dany said effusively, turning it over in her hands with awe, “that’s gorgeous!”

Arya ducked her head, grinning. “Jon helped me with it.”

Dany turned to look at him. Her smile could have melted all the snowbanks outside, he thought. “Oh. I should have known.”

“Well,” he said sheepishly, “my gift’s kind of similar. Not quite so cool, I’m afraid. It’s for both of you.” He reached under the tree and produced the package that Sam had helped him wrap with care, selecting the perfect weight of ivory wrapping paper and creamy white ribbons.

Robb looked up at him, looking genuinely touched. “Christ, Jon, that’s beautiful!”

Jon shrugged bashfully. “Sam helped me.” He put down his camera and waited with bated breath as Dany carefully unwrapped the heavy paper, his heart pounding in his chest.

“It’s…” Dany said finally, opening the book reverently and looking up at Jon, “it’s _incredible_.” She and Robb turned the pages of the wedding album in silent awe. With noises of appreciation, Sansa and Catelyn also crowded close to look. Ned gave Jon an approving smile from where he sat in his armchair, and Jon ducked his head, feeling himself blush.

He’d gone to great lengths to pick out just the right book with the perfect amount of heavyweight paper. There were only about sixty photos in the entire album, and he’d agonised over which ones to choose. Even though Jon almost always worked in a digital medium these days, he’d thought that an old-fashioned wedding album would make the perfect gift. There was something special about albums like that, something that suggested permanence and remembrance in a way that every new couple wanted for their marriage. They reminded Jon of the photo albums of his mum’s that he had from so long ago, before her accident.

There was a pause, a long enchanted lull in which Robb and Dany slowly turned the pages of the album, everyone else watching them with smiles on their faces or else crowding near to see the photos for themselves. Then Robert jumped up. “I almost forgot! Rickon, I’ve got something for ye.” He produced a neatly wrapped package with a card attached, and handed it to Rickon.

The youngest Stark, his face already blushing, opened the card. Then he promptly turned even redder and started smiling uncontrollably.

“Let’s see, then!” Arya and Bran both made a mad grab for him, but Rickon ducked out of their grasp. He unwrapped the gift, letting the blue and silver paper fall to the floor. It was a boxed set of Dr. Who, the latest season, and Rickon’s face lit up. “Oh, this is brilliant! She must have…” He immediately blushed even redder and shut his mouth.

“ _She!_ ” Arya looked positively gleeful. “Rickon, have you got a girlfriend? You have, haven’t you?” She lunged across the sofa, no doubt intending to tickle the answer out of her younger brother, but Rickon shot away with his legendary speed, shrieking. The adults watched slightly open-mouthed as the two of them bolted out of the room and out of sight.

“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” said Catelyn with a knowing smile. Ned shot her a glance and mouthed, _Who?_ But Catelyn only shook her head and smiled, and it seemed that the identity of Rickon’s secret admirer would remain a mystery, at least for Christmas night.

**Stannis**

“I hope you don’t feel bad that Uncle Robert left so early,” he said awkwardly, sitting by the Christmas tree with Shireen. Abandoned plates of dessert and mugs of coffee and tea sat on the coffee table beside them, and BBC Classical radio was playing softly throughout the house.

She looked up at him and smiled. “Are you joking, Daddy? Uncle Robert is so loud. Besides I knew he only wanted to stay a while. He looked like he really wanted to get away and get pissed.”

Stannis choked on a sip of coffee. “Excuse me?”

His daughter smiled at him. “It’s okay, Daddy. I know that Uncle Robert likes to drink. That’s fine.” She looked down at the present she was unwrapping, a parcel that had arrived that morning. Shireen’s face had absolutely lit up when Stannis had handed her the box. Its return address was Winterfell, so it was clear who the sender was.

The parcel was beautifully wrapped. Shireen opened it carefully, peeling back the many layers of ribbon and coloured paper, and beamed when she finally revealed the contents. “Oh, that’s just brilliant! I love it!”

It was a multi-disc compilation of classic rock hits that Stannis remembered from his own youth, spanning the ‘60s to the ‘80s. “I didn’t know you liked this sort of music,” Stannis said, genuinely surprised. Shireen liked classical music, just like him; she could play several of Chopin’s etudes on the piano and had been taking lessons since she was six.

“Rickon likes it,” Shireen explained, “and he turned me onto it. He was really chuffed to find out that my uncle was Robert Baratheon!” She spread out all the CDs out, inspecting them. “We’ve got the same favorite War Hammer song, too,” she added, rather mysteriously.

There was a card, too, but Shireen opened it, read it quickly and coloured a violent red, and refused to let Stannis read it. He decided to let that one rest. “So,” he began awkwardly instead. “Are you… really keen on this boy?”

“Yes,” his daughter said emphatically. She smiled.

Stannis had been meaning to have a conversation with her about this, but seeing her blissful expression, he lost his nerve. It was Christmas, anyway, and Christmas was supposed to be about family. That particular talk could wait. “Well. I’ve got one more thing for you, too,” he said, after a moment. “Something special.”

He reached under the tree and produced one last small little present. Shireen carefully opened the small purple box lined with velvet, and then gasped. The golden locket dangled on its chain as she held it up, inscribed with a delicate cursive ‘S’. He was pleased to see that looked just as lovely as when it had caught his eye at Harrods.

“There’s photos inside,” he told Shireen, watching her closely. She nodded, prised the locket open carefully, and gazed at the photos.

“Oh,” she said, a little catch in her voice, “it’s Mummy.”

Stannis didn’t know what to say. “I hope it doesn’t make you too sad,” he managed at last. His throat was dry. He’d chosen the photos specially, going through all the old archives on his personal computer as much as it had hurt and confused him to do so. It was strange to look at the memories of a marriage lived and lost, mostly loveless, but comfortable in its own way.

For the locket, he’d chosen a photo of Selyse holding tiny baby Shireen in her arms at only a few days old, and a photo of Selyse and Shireen when Shireen was five and all dressed up for the church nativity play.

“I like these photos,” Shireen said, at last, after studying the photos with an expression that seemed oddly serious for a nine-year-old. “But would you be hurt if… we picked some different ones?”

“What do you mean?” Stannis was crestfallen, but struggled not to show it. He knew he wasn’t the best judge of photos, but he really had tried, and…

“I want a picture of you, Daddy,” Shireen said determinedly. “After all, lockets are supposed to hold pictures of people you love.”

He had not been expecting her to say that. “Well—yes, I suppose that would be all right,” he managed, after a moment.

Quite without warning, Shireen surprised him with one of her lung-crushing hugs, hugging him more fiercely than he’d thought a nine-year-old could. She rested her head against his chest for a long minute, and then looked straight up at him solemnly, looking as if she was about to say something very serious indeed.

“I love you, Daddy.”

She burrowed her head back in his chest. Four words, and Stannis found himself knocked speechless. He tried to collect himself.

“I—I love you too,” he said, a bit hoarsely. He meant it, of course. It was just rather a different thing to _know_ something in your heart and to actually say it out loud.

Shireen tipped her head back again, accepting his words with childish certainty, as if they were her natural due. “I know it’s been hard for you too with Mummy gone. I know you miss her.”

Stannis swallowed, and found that again he couldn’t find the exact words that he wanted to say. “I do. But it’s not so terrible with just the two of us, is it?”

“No, Daddy. It’s not.”

Stannis’s daughter smiled, and Stannis smiled back. Then they curled up together on the sofa to watch the Doctor Who Christmas special, eating slices of pie and drinking cocoa and coffee to stay warm.

 

 

**Ned**

After the gifts had been unwrapped and all the children had gone off to their various corners of the house, Ned and Robert settled into the den with one of Robert’s bottles of whiskey and a plate full of the Christmas biscuits Sansa had baked. It was nearly midnight.

“You know,” Ned said gently, nudging his old friend with his elbow, “I don’t remember the last time I saw you in the flesh.”

Robert groaned. “I know, mate. It’s been far too long, and I blame myself. Shoulda been in touch, and I’m sorry.” He gave a muffled groan as he reached over Ned for the plate of biscuits.

“Aren’t you supposed to be watching your weight now, you big lad?” Ned teased, ducking his head out of Robert’s way. “Now that you’re living the rock star life again?”

His old mate chuckled. “Ah, I know I’m a fat old bastard. But it’s part of the charm, innit? Now, that is.” Robert looked a bit sad as he nibbled the head off of a gingerbread reindeer.

“So why’d you choose to go back to the music business?” Ned began, a bit cautiously. “You know that I’m a fan of your music. But it’s not as if that of song of yours was exactly begging for a Christmas rendition.”

Robert groaned. “Ah, that was my music manager’s idea. Besides, it’s not like there are plenty of other job opportunities for me, y’know? I’m a fat old bag, no one was going to want to use me for endorsements. Not unless I rebranded myself, that is. Now I’m a piece of walkin’ nostalgia, eh? Plus,” he said, lowering his voice almost conspiratorially, “I needed the money.”

Ned hesitated. He and Catelyn had suspected as much. “So you’re not exactly… solvent?”

“Rehab is quite expensive,” Robert said solemnly. There was an uneasy pause before he laughed; feeling rather relieved, Ned laughed too. Robert had been to rehab four times at this point; his last release had been five months ago, and Ned hadn’t heard from him since, despite visiting Robert while he was in there. It was always the same song and dance with Robert. Ned believed in his best mate, of course, but after a point there was only so much one could do.

Robert’s chuckling died away, and his face grew serious. “Ah, Ned. You know I’ve burned plenty of bridges in my day. Cersei won’t even let me see the kids at this point, and I can’t say that I blame her.”

Ned said nothing.

“But I did send them Christmas presents this year,” Ned’s old mate went on brightly. “I’m going to be better, Ned. I’m going to do better.”

Ned nodded. Now, though, Robert’s face was growing sadder and sadder. Ned knew that look. It meant that Robert was about to start reminiscing about everything, including the one great heartbreak of his life. “I miss Lyanna,” Robert said softly, looking sad.

Ned exhaled, feeling the whiskey. “Bob, mate,” he said gently, leaning forward and looking at his best mate in the eyes. “You always say that—you always wonder over what could have been. But that wouldn’t have made anything magically different. You might’ve married Lyanna and had problems, too.”

Best mates they might be, but Ned secretly had never quite forgiven Robert the mess Robert’d made of his family life. Cersei Lannister might be one of the most beautiful women on the planet, but when Ned had known her she was one of the unhappiest, too. Every time Ned had seen her over the course of Robert’s marriage, save maybe a few happy years right at the beginning, she had resembled a caged, wild animal. That was one union that was doomed to fail, although the two of them had held on a lot longer than anyone expected.

“Do you think you’re the only one who misses Lyanna? Jon never knew his mum. I lost my sister. All of my kids lost an aunt they never got to meet.” Ned sat up. “It’s time you stopped being so selfish, Robert. Move on with your life.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” Robert said, looking stung. Then he relaxed. “You’re right, though. And I’ve been trying, really I am. You know I never was the way you were, Ned… so organised, with a head for figures. You’ve got your life all sorted. You’ve had it sorted since you were twenty.”

Ned chuckled. “Well, I certainly felt like a prig when you went off and left uni to form a rock band. You left me behind to fend for myself, mate. I _had_ to have my life together.”

“But then you got to bring all your birds to my gigs,” Robert said with a wink. “Worked for Cat, didn’t it?”

As if hearing her name, Ned’s wife chose that exact moment to pop her head round the door. She was dressed in her tartan bathrobe and house slippers, and her long red hair hung down round her shoulders. “Ned, darling, it’s nearly one. I’m going to bed. Are you coming?”

Ned smiled at her. “No, love, I’m going to reminisce a little more with this old wanker.” Next to him, Robert made a noise of protest.

Cat smiled back and then turned to Robert. “Robert, dear, I’ve made up the spare room for you. The one you usually use. It’s nice to see you back here again.”

Robert chuckled. “Thanks, love—you’re a real gem, you know. I was just telling your husband how lucky he is to have you.”

“Were you?” His wife arched an eyebrow. “Well, he _is_ lucky. I try not to let him forget it.” To the rumbling crescendo of Robert’s laughter, she blew Ned a kiss from the doorway and departed.

“Don’t forget it,” Robert said with a chuckle, waggling his head and imitating Cat’s pointed tone. He leaned over and thumped Ned on the knee, but as he settled back into his seat he looked a bit sad and thoughtful. “No, don’t you forget it,” he repeated, fixing Ned with a look.

“Happy Christmas,” Ned told him. “Happy Christmas, mate.”

 

 

 


	5. Boxing Day

#  _Boxing Day_

 

 

 **Margaery**  

“I’ve never seen Grandma get so pissed in my life,” Loras said.

“It must have been the eggnog. I told you it was a bad idea to put Dad in charge of it.” 

“He does like the brandy,” Loras said thoughtfully. “A good bit more than he should, that’s for sure.”

They were stretched out on the leather sofa in one of the downstairs living rooms, cosied up beneath two large charcoal-grey knit blankets. Daniel Craig’s image was frozen on the giant flat-screen TV, chasing Eva Green through the streets of Venice in _Casino Royale_ and looking majorly fit as he did so. But as much as Margaery and Loras loved Bond films (neither of them could ever decide who they wanted to be more, Bond or the Bond girl), they’d been talking so much that they’d decided to just stop the film and have a serious chat. A tray of martini fixings sat on the table before them, the bottle of vermouth still uncapped. Naturally, any watching of a Bond film by the Tyrell siblings had to be accompanied by trying to mix the perfect 007 martini.

“So tell me,” Margaery said. “Tell me exactly what happened. I want to know why you’ve been moping around here like somebody died.”

She had been able to tell that Loras hadn’t wanted to spill all the details and ruin their lovely family holiday. But now Christmas was over, and it was almost time for New Year’s. And that meant they could discuss all their problems in depth before proceeding to drink them away on New Year’s Eve.

“I just don’t know what to do,” Loras said at last. “He’s interested, I’m sure.”

“You mean the Prime Minister, don’t you?” Margaery sat up excitedly. “You do, don’t you?”

Loras turned to look at her, his big brown eyes wide. He hesitated, then let out a whimper of defeat like a puppy. That meant yes.

Margaery knew it. Oh, she just _knew_ it!She’d had her finger on this from the day Loras had phoned her excitedly to tell her that he’d gotten his new placement in the PM’s office, and she’d looked up Renly’s picture again straightaway just to see if he really was as handsome as she remembered. One look at dashing Renly Baratheon and Margaery had known with almost immediate certainty that her brother would fall for him. Loras had always fallen in love so easily—and he had a pronounced weakness for authority figures.

She pointed one finger at him accusingly. “Spill.”

Her brother rolled over, showing his belly in defeat. Out came the entire sad tale, from his and Renly’s cinematic meeting to all the build-up of tension to Renly’s discovery of him in the men’s washroom with the Monacan ambassador. “And I swear, Margaery, I was totally blindsided!” Loras exploded, sitting up and looking at her wide-eyed. “I didn’t know what was happening, and suddenly he was pushing me up against a wall and murmuring in his stupid accent that he had never known that British men could be so attractive! I could have decked him—but then the Prime Minister came in and I just about _died_. Then I haven’t heard from the PM since, and he gave us all early leave,” he finished miserably. “I haven’t even had the chance to _see_ him… much less speak to him.”

“All right,” she said at last, “that’s quite a lot, isn’t it? Where do we start?”

Her big brother sighed enormously. “Well, first of all, thanks to that manwhore from Monaco, he thinks I’m a total slag.”

“Easily remedied,” Margaery said lightly, even though she knew it wasn’t as easy as she made it sound. Damage control was always something that had to be handled carefully.

“And second, Marg, he’s not just any man. He’s the bloody Prime Minister.”

She grinned. “That’s just proof that my big brother is irresistible to any man.”

Loras smiled in spite of himself, and then sighed. “No, darling, that’s just it. I _can’t_ flirt with him and dance around in circles as if he were anyone else. He’s different.”

Margaery smiled sadly. “Loras, you’re not _just_ flirting with him. You really fancy him—just admit it.”

Her brother bit his lip stubbornly, and Margaery felt her heart twang with love and sympathy for him. “It’s also… if I were to try anything, and if things went wrong… well, that’s my job too, you know? I’ve worked so hard to get where I am, Margaery. I can’t risk it all just because the Prime Minister happens to be ridiculously fit.”

He set his glass on the table with a heavy sigh and laid his head in her lap, and she stroked his curls.

“Besides,” he continued at last, in a quiet voice, “I don’t even know if he really is gay. I don’t want to just end up becoming, you know… a closet shag. His dirty little secret. I don’t want him to feel embarrassed about me.”

Margaery’s heart ached for her brother. Even though Loras had been blessed in all the ways a man could be blessed—intelligence, charm, good looks, and killer sartorial sense—he was heartbreakingly vulnerable when it came to love. He was a romantic, even if people often found it difficult to tell through all his charm. They two had that in common, actually.

“Don’t worry,” she said comfortingly. “It’ll all turn out fine.”He sighed and nodded, and she gently petted the curls away from his face. “Do you want an olive?”

He nodded silently and she reached into the olive jar and fed him one. Then she ate one herself.

After a moment in which they did nothing but breathe in silent sibling tandem, Loras lifted his head and looked at her. “What about you, Marg? And your straight girl?”

Margaery’s heart turned in her chest. “I don’t know if she’s straight,” she said automatically.

“Well. Straight’s never been a problem for you,” Loras replied, sitting up. He fixed her with a smirk and took a long sip of the last of his martini, then made a face and reached for a fresh glass to start making a new one.

“Loras, I’m being serious,” she said, turning completely around to face him. “Sansa’s—”

“Different?”

Margaery sighed, pulling her eyes back to the brim of her own glass. “She’s my best friend.”

It had taken her exactly ten minutes after meeting Sansa Stark for Margaery to realise that she was really, majorly into her. But once it became clear that Sansa was basically straight (if only due to ignorance of alternate options) _and_ recovering from the end of a bad relationship, Margaery had dialled it back. And then, most surprisingly, for a girl who had first snogged another girl at age 13 in the gym of her elite same-sex boarding school and was used to taking things _very_ fast, Margaery had decided for Sansa’s sake to take things slow. They could start out as just friends: and that was exactly how things had progressed. Margaery had actually done it, too—until she had tried to say goodbye to Sansa before the holiday break, and had ended up kissing her instead.

She hadn’t meant to kiss Sansa, really. Well, not consciously. She’d been debating with herself forever and ever before doing it, and then… sort of got caught up in the moment. _It’s not fair if she just goes off like that and starts reciting love poems! What was she expecting me to do, give her a high five?_ Now Marg found herself almost wistfully thinking of Sansa, the way the other girl had pressed her face to the glass of the retreating car that day they’d kissed, looking for all the world like a lost puppy with her wide blue eyes. Margaery had never wanted to stop kissing her.

“Don’t you think,” Loras began, in a deliberately innocent voice, “that it’s a bit dodgy for you to befriend her and just be her _mate_ for a year and some, when all you really ever wanted to do was get in her pants?”

“Loras!” Margaery sat upright, genuinely put out. “That is _not_ true!”

“Isn’t it?” Loras was doing a very poor job of disguising his smile.

She huffed indignantly. “You’re a right bitch to say that, you know. No, it’s _not_. I wanted to be her friend too, and I really _like_ being her friend. That’s why I never did anything before now. I don’t want to lose her.”

“All right! I’m sorry.” Her brother paused for a moment, his blue eyes apologetic, before elbowing Margaery in the side. “Grandmother likes her, so you’ve got that seal of approval. That means a lot, you know.”

Margaery rolled her eyes, even though it was the truth. “I know.” She’d asked Sansa up to Highgarden over the summer to ride horses and run around the country estate for two entire weeks, and it had been absolutely idyllic. Why hadn’t Margaery made a move then? Why was she so tentative to take things out of the friend zone when it came to Sansa? God, she should have known that her own restraint around Sansa meant that she’d really fallen deep.

Loras was correct regarding their grandmother’s judgment. “She’s a good girl,” Olenna had observed. “Timid, polite, not a lot to say. A bit insipid perhaps.” Margaery had rolled her eyes. “She only seems that way to you because you’re _terrifying_ , Grandmother.”

Now Margaery only sighed rather unwillingly. “It’s just… I think she’s fine with what happened, but I keep thinking that maybe I oughtn’t have surprised her like that. We haven’t really talked about it, and I wish we could. She might be really panicking right now.”

Loras laughed. “Oh, please… all things told, it sounded like a great reaction. She didn’t scream and push you away. She didn’t faint. She didn’t go, ‘Gosh, Marg, you’re a great girl, but you know I’m not really keen on the whole ‘gay’ thing, right?’” He groaned, rolling his eyes. “Which, I’ll remind you, is a genuine response that has been experienced by _one_ of us before.”

“Oh, _Loras_ ,” Margaery said sympathetically, trying and failing not to laugh.

“Look, she was bound to be surprised no matter how you did it.” Loras smoothed his hair back with a sigh. “Honestly, Marg, that girl’s middle name should be ‘Innocent.’ You were going to corrupt her even if you formally courted her with horse and carriage.”

“Shut up,” she complained, pushing him. “You’re so mean.”

“I think she’s a beautiful girl,” Loras said, growing serious. “Really. I think she’s unusual for you, and maybe a little too good for you. Which is exactly why you have to go for it. Don’t give up.”

Margaery relaxed, and finally let out a heavy sigh. “I know… she’s like, incorruptibly perfect. But what should I do, Loras? I mean, we’ve barely texted, just talking about idiotic things like—biscuits, I haven’t been able to even bring up anything close to the topic.”

Loras sat up. “Let me see your mobile.”

“Okay,” she said, pulling it out, and Loras grabbed it from her with greedy curiosity. “She’s your screensaver?” It was a picture of her and Sansa, heads together, smiling for a selfie. She shrugged at him and nodded. Her older brother flicked through to the home screen, not needing to ask for the password. “ _And_ she’s your background?” It was a picture of Sansa alone wearing a blue Alice band, smiling with her head partially turned away. Margaery had thousands of pictures on her mobile, but Sansa was involved in a good half of them.

“She looks really pretty in that picture,” Margaery said defensively. 

Loras pulled an incredulous face at her. “You’re practically already dating. Mobiles never lie.” Margaery rolled her eyes. “It’s pretty damn cute, I’ll give you that. I wish I had photos like that of Renly. The PM,” he added, blushing slightly when Margaery whipped around to give him a very pointed look.

He flicked open her messages and thumbed over the conversations that she and Sansa had had. “Hmm. I see what you mean. So far you’ve gotten the recipe for her mum’s ginger snaps and a photo of her wearing a woolly jumper—ugh, no offense to your beloved but that thing is hideous—but no decent discussion of your current status.”

“It’s an ugly Christmas jumper,” she said automatically, feeling compelled to defend Sansa’s sartorial choices. It really was a disgusting-looking jumper, but Sansa loved reindeer and anything sparkly so Margaery had lied effusively about its cuteness. “It’s supposed to be nasty looking.”

Loras cracked up. “Right.”

“Oh, shut up. So what should I _do_?” Margaery asked, sitting up and kneading his arm like a cat.

He folded up her phone and handed it back to her. “Just… talk to her when you feel like it,” he told her gently, resting his hand comfortably on her knee. “And when you’re completely sure you’ll have the right words to say.”

Margaery sighed. “All right. Thanks,” she said, ruffling his golden curls with her free hand. “For listening to my drama.”

“No problem. I’m rooting for you, bitch,” Loras raised his eyebrows again before tipping his glass up and finishing his martini completely. “So, what say you to my Prime Minister dilemma?”

Marg tapped one finger on her lips in thought.

“I think you should send him a letter,” she said at last. “A holiday letter. Just explain your side of things. If he really got that upset seeing you with that manwhore… and he was so obviously keen on you before… I’ll bet my right tit that he felt jealous and hurt.”

“Well, that’s quite the bet,” her brother mused, and then wrinkled his nose. “Come off it, though, who sends letters any more?”

“Trust me,” Margaery reassured. “It’s old-fashioned, which makes it important. An email just wouldn’t be the same.” She smiled at him. “Send him your holiday well-wishes, and just briefly explain your side of the story. Your feelings for him.”

Loras looked at her. “You mean it? And you really think that might work?”

“I mean it,” she promised. “And I do.”

 

 

**Sansa**

After the heady rush of Christmas Day, Sansa woke up the next morning feeling uncharacteristically depressed. The holiday excitement was over, and now she had two whole weeks of uninterrupted time to do nothing. Once that would have been exactly what she wanted, but now it just meant more time without Margaery, and more time to brood about things as they currently stood between them.

She lay in bed for about an hour scrolling through Facebook on her laptop before finally putting on her giant woolly bathrobe and going downstairs. There she joined Bran and Arya at the kitchen table where they sat eating scrambled eggs, kippers, and toast. Bran was buried in the copy of _A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court_ she’d given him, and Arya was playing a game on her phone.

“What’s wrong with you?” Arya said critically, glancing at Sansa as she rather despondently poured double cream in her coffee.

Sansa shrugged, half-forcing a smile she didn’t feel. “Just sad that Christmas is over, I guess.”

“Okay…” said Arya, looking doubtful, but turned back to her record-breaking round of Super Hexagon without further comment.

To ward off the blues, Sansa decided to go on the hike that Robb had been excitedly planning for days. Dany and Jon also went along and they all tramped up the hills behind Winterfell, bundled up warmly in anoraks and snow boots.

Robb led the group with Dany by his side, eagerly pointing out all the natural beauty of the land surrounding Winterfell and the village below. After just a few minutes outside, breathing the crisp cold winter air and walking further into the woods where she’d practically grown up, Sansa felt immeasurably better. She fell into step beside Jon, who seemed unusually quiet today even for him. Something seemed to be bothering him.

“Not feeling so great?” she asked him quietly, as they trudged together through the snow.

He looked at her, cheeks reddening. “Um, no,” he answered finally, sounding uncomfortable, and looked back down at his feet.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she said carefully, giving him a cautious smile. Jon had always been closer with Arya than with her, but she felt that she ought to lend a listening ear. He’d given her some really good advice about Joffrey, back in the day, and she’d never forgotten it.

He smiled at her a bit embarrassedly. “Not really, if that’s all right.”

“Yeah, of course,” she said gently.

He didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t press him. Whatever it was, if it was love-related, she could empathise. They walked together in silence for a while, taking in the sight of the soaring trees above them and the fresh winter air. “D’you remember when we used to play hide-and-seek here?” she said as they passed through a copse of densely grown firs, and Jon laughed, ruefully brushing a gloved hand over his face. “Yeah, and that one time Arya got lost for five hours and we couldn’t find her and ended up calling the village police?”

Sansa started giggling. “Then it turned out that she had just crawled up some tree and fallen asleep?”

“Typical.” They both laughed at the memory, and then winced identically to remember the look of absolute fury on Catelyn’s face at the end of that particular ordeal. “And then Mum…”

“ _Right_. Not good.”

Finally they emerged onto a vast meadow where the snowfall of the past few weeks seemed to have accumulated untouched. Ahead of them on the far swell of the hill, no more than two tiny figures in the distance, Robb and Dany appeared to be taking pictures together.

“Oh, look,” Sansa said with childish delight, moving forward and waving her arms around at the scene. The snow beckoned, a flawless blanket of white. “We can make snow angels.”

Jon opened his mouth to protest. His eyes were locked on Robb and Dany in the distance.

“Jon,” Sansa wheedled. “Come on, please?” She thought for a moment that he would refuse, but then he turned to her, shook his head slightly as if trying to rid himself of a troubling thought, and followed her into the meadow.

Flopping onto her back in the snow and staring up at the clear blue sky above them, Sansa closed her eyes for a moment. Then she turned to look at Jon, who lay on his back beside her. He grinned at her, and she smiled back, turned away, and began to wave her arms and legs back and forth just as they’d done when they were children.

When she’d finished her snow angel, she turned to look at Jon again expectantly; he smiled at her again, and she felt a rush of pure happiness. Completely relaxed, feeling the snowbank pressing cold and compact around her body like an embrace of winter, Sansa closed her eyes blissfully.

Then she was shocked by a face-full of snow. Letting out a gasp of surprise, Sansa opened her eyes in shock to see Jon beaming with glee, before he sat up to run out of retaliation range. “Right, that’s it!” she shouted, adrenaline jumping in her veins, and leapt up to pack a snowball of her own.

Whatever that had been eating Jon, it seemed to be entirely forgotten as they embarked on their snowball fight. 

* * *

 

Returning from the bathroom with her wet hair wrapped in a towel, feeling refreshed after nearly four hours getting sweaty outdoors in the snow, Sansa was surprised to find her little sister sitting on her bed with her arms crossed across her chest.

“Right,” said Arya, looking as grim as a hit man on a mission. This was clearly a tactical ambush. “You’ve been acting weird all break, and it’s time to share. What is going _on_ with you?”

Sansa opened her mouth to make excuses, but to her surprise found that she couldn’t think of any. She suddenly couldn’t fathom why she needed to hide this, her feelings about Margaery—from Arya, of all people. “I… don’t know if you’ll understand,” she began tentatively.

Her little sister actually snorted. “Seriously, Sansa? Try me.”

Sansa sat down on her bed. “All right… fine. Just let me change.”

Arya eyed her. “You’d better not run out on me, you know.”

Sansa waved an arm around her bedroom in all its floral-wallpapered glory with an air of defeat. “Where am I going to go?”

Her sister nodded, acknowledging the point. “All right, then. I’ll be right back.”

Ten minutes later, Sansa had dressed herself in her favourite pink tartan pyjamas and a pair of woolly socks. Without so much as a knock on the door, Arya emerged bearing a tray with two steaming mugs of cocoa, a tin of Christmas biscuits, and a giant packet of crisps. “Here,” said Arya, setting the tray down on Sansa’s bed, and handed over a mug of cocoa. She grabbed the biscuit tin and popped it open.

“Thanks,” said Sansa in a small voice. She sipped at her cocoa, trying to find the perfect words to say. Arya bit the head off a gingerbread snowman and waited, chewing. “I’ve just, um,” she began at last, “I’ve just been thinking a lot about my best friend, Margaery.”

“Oh,” said Arya thoughtfully. “Why, are you angry with her? Fancy the same bloke, or something?”

Sansa coughed hastily. “Oh. No. Definitely not.”

Arya eyed her closely with interest mixed with patience, and Sansa was reminded suddenly of Arya’s expression every time Sansa had poured her heart out about Joff. That was the thing about sisters—they were supposed to stick by you through thick and through thin. Arya would, right?

“No. You see, the thing is,” she went on, lifting her head and looking at her sister, “I actually fancy… Margaery.”

Arya stared at her for a moment before speaking. “Your friend Margaery, from university? The one you went to see over the summer?”

“That’s right,” Sansa admitted, feeling herself beginning to blush.

“So… do you like girls, then?”

“I don’t know!” she exclaimed. “I just—I like Margaery, that’s all.”

“Well,” Arya said, totally impassive. “I can’t say I’m surprised. Robb owes me ten quid.”

“Wait, what? I—” Sansa spluttered.

Arya’s face cracked into a smile. “My god, Sansa, I’m only joking. And who cares if you like girls? Or just Margaery, or whatever?”

“Really?” Sansa said in a little voice.

“Really. It’s the 21st century, and _nobody_ cares who you date. Mum and Dad will get over it—they make a lot of noise but they’re not really that old-fashioned. Believe me, after that last wanker you went out with, they’ll probably be overjoyed. Do go on.” Arya actually smiled at Sansa, before popping the rest of her gingerbread in her mouth.

“Oh,” Sansa said, massively relieved. She hadn’t wanted to admit that she was worried about this, telling her family—but now that she’d sort of done it, she could admit that it actually _had_ been weighing on her mind. She hesitated, thinking.

“Well, I never really thought about it… I mean, she’s my _best_ friend at uni and we do all sorts of things together since we live in the same flat. I always knew Margaery was bi, but never thought she could be into _me_. She’s just so fit and smart and…” Arya was making _wind-it-up_ motions with her hands. “…Well the point is, right before we left for the holidays, she kissed me. That is, we kissed.”

Arya’s mouth was an O of delighted shock. “You _what?_ ”

Sansa nodded dramatically, surprised by how much she was enjoying her sister’s reaction. “That’s right. And I really liked it, even though I hardly had any time to process at all—because who came driving up right then but _Mum_ in the bloody car! I had to get in straight away and to drive home.”

“Did Mum—”

“No, Mum didn’t _see_ anything!” Sansa was blushing at the very thought. “But she certainly put a damper on things, that’s for sure. I hardly had time to say goodbye to Marg, much less… discuss what had just happened. Since then, though, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, though I’ve tried and tried. And I really miss her.”

Arya, who usually had little patience for anything related to romance or other “soft” things, was taking this in with surprising interest. “Sans, that’s fantastic. That’s… sweet, actually.”

Sansa paused a bit warily, waiting for Arya’s wisecrack or quick comment, but there was nothing. Arya sat chewing on her lip, apparently thinking quite hard. “Look, I know you miss her—but you’ll be able to see her soon enough, yeah? After New Years’?”

“I know,” Sansa said, with a sigh. “I just wish… it could be sooner. She’s really busy, too. She’s having this massive party at her family’s, too—”

“Her family’s loaded, aren’t they?” At Sansa’s look, Arya shrugged. “I know these things.”

“Well, _yeah_ —her brother works for the Prime Minister, they’re all very posh—and it’s supposed to be the party of the century.” Sansa sighed. “And I know that you might not believe me, but I don’t even care about any of that. I only want to see Margaery.”

Arya had a familiar look on her face that only meant one thing—trouble. “I know what you have to do.”

“What?”

Arya nodded dramatically. “You have to go to her party so you can be her New Year’s kiss.”

Sansa’s mouth fell open. “I—I don’t…”

“Isn’t that what you like? Big gesture? Romantic? Come on, Sans, I _know_ that’s what you want to do.”

“Arya…”

Sansa’s little sister raised her eyebrows sagely. “I mean, you _could_ ask her to come here, but then you’d have lost the element of surprise. That’s key to this kind of thing, isn’t it?”

Sansa laughed nervously, shaking her head. “Arya… I don’t know.”

“Sans, listen.” Arya leaned closer, brown eyes blazing. She looked a lot older than her sixteen years. “You can’t just say you fancy your best friend and not have loads of reasons why. So tell me—why? Why do you like her?”

Sansa closed her eyes for a moment, shutting everything else out but the thought of Margaery. “It’s just… we’re so close, you know? She can practically finish my sentences for me, we know each other that well. And she’s so hilarious and intelligent and glamorous, being attracted to her was practically the easy part—once I realised. And I didn’t realise until she kissed me.” She laughed ruefully and then grew a bit quiet, running her thumb along the rim of her cocoa mug. “I don’t know. It just seems like whenever she’s with me, Marg only sees the good parts about me. When I see myself through her eyes, it’s like this positive spotlight that just… erases everything else. I don’t feel insecure, or stupid, or nervous when I’m with her. She makes me feel so special, and _seen_ … like the best possible version of me. She just trusts that I am this good, smart, kind person. She doesn’t believe me when I say bad things about myself.”

She raised her head, meeting her little sister’s eyes. “So to find out that Marg wants to be with me in a way that’s even more than being best friends… I don’t know. Nobody ever made me feel that way before, Arya. Like, she really has seen every part of me,” here Sansa paused to let out an embarrassed laugh, “the good _and_ the bad—and she still cares for me in that incredible way. Sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve it. It’s that amazing.”

“Don’t start with that ‘I don’t deserve it’ bollocks,” Arya warned her, firmly putting years of Sansa’s bad relationships behind them. “Sansa, she sounds pretty fantastic. Why the hell are you worried?”

“It’s just…” Sansa said uncertainly. “I don’t know. It’s _scary_. I’m really scared, Arya.”

Her little sister shook her head. “Well, duh. Of course you are.”

“Excuse me?”

“Of course it’s scary!” Arya looked at her like it was obvious. “It’s _really_ scary when the person you think is your best mate suddenly seems to want to become something more.” She paused to take a deep breath. “When you feel almost like they snuck up on you, because they know you from the inside out, and you almost can’t separate yourself from them anymore. When they know things that you might not even want them to know—but they know anyway because they’re your best friend.”

Sansa nodded slowly, struck by her little sister’s words. “That’s…that’s exactly it, Arya. That’s really spot-on.”

Arya smiled, looking almost triumphant. But her smile faded into a look of slight horror when Sansa tipped her head calculatingly, opening her mouth to go in for the kill. “Sansa—"

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Sansa accused, getting to her knees in her jubilant discovery. “Your mate, Gendry—you like him! You really _like_ him! You do, Arya!”

Arya stood up, flushing, all of her guru-like calm vanishing. Suddenly she looked exactly sixteen again. “I am not having this conversation!”

“You absolutely fancy him! I _knew_ it!”

“God, Sansa! Just because your life is a Nicholas Sparks novel doesn’t mean that mine is, too. I came here to give you advice, not get lectured on my own business. So you can stop projecting your issues onto me, thanks very much!” Arya looked furiously indignant, but her bright red face ruined the effect. A moment elapsed, and then—

“All _right_ ,” Sansa’s little sister admitted grudgingly, easing herself back down onto the bed. “ _God_. Maybe I do like him. A little. Just a bit. He’s right stupid, though.”

“I think he’s smart,” Sansa said mildly. “He can fix things that even Dad can’t sort out, and he knows all about music and things. Mum and Dad both like him a lot, I heard them talking. They said he’s very polite, and sounded really impressed about it.”

Arya rolled his eyes. “They’re such prigs. Just ‘cos he’s got tattoos. Of course he’s got good manners, he was brought up by a single mum!”

“Have you…” Sansa inquired delicately, taking a meaningful sip of her cocoa and staring pointedly at her sister over the rim.

“No!” Arya flushed red at the very insinuation.

“So are you going to kiss him on New Years’?” Sansa said slyly, ridiculously relieved to be off the topic of her own awful and wonderful love life.

Arya flushed deeper. “I don’t know. I don’t know! Can we talk about something else please?”

Sansa shrugged. “Fine by me.”

“Let’s talk about,” Arya said after a moment, with the conspiratorial air of a general at war, “how you’re going to get Margaery’s party on New Years’. Because this really, really needs to happen.”

Sansa took a deep breath. “All right,” she said, and settled closer to listen to what Arya had in mind.

 

 


	6. After Christmas

#  _After Christmas_

 

 

 **Catelyn**  

Her children greeted her at the breakfast table looking positively murderous. Cat took a look, shook her head, and crossed to the cafetiere to pour herself a cup. Then, nursing her mug of coffee, she turned around and looked back at her family. They still looked bad.

“All right,” she said, resigning herself, “what is it?”

Everyone opened their mouths to speak, but Arya got there first. “It’s mad Aunt Lysa,” Catelyn’s younger daughter burst out in a complaining rush.

Cat’s mouth dropped open in horror. “Arya! Shh! She and Robert might hear you.”

“What?” said Arya indignantly. “They’re not here, they’ve gone into the village to go to the pharmacy. Apparently Robert’s got a runny nose, so they had to drive all the way in. Dad took them, even though he kept trying to tell her that we’ve got plenty of things in the medicine cupboard.”

Ned, Catelyn thought, was a saint when it came to these things. Every year Catelyn issued a standing invitation for Lysa to come down for the holidays from where she lived with her husband and son in a particularly craggy part of Scotland. Lysa hadn’t taken her up on it in ages, and Cat and her sister had never been close… but as Ned always reminded her, it was the right thing to do. This year was different—Lysa’s much-older husband had passed away, so she’d finally accepted Cat’s offer to come down to England. Only for New Year's, she’d told Cat repeatedly over the phone—she wouldn’t want to disrupt little Robert’s Christmas traditions. As eager as Cat was to fulfil her sisterly duties, she couldn’t say that she was utterly disappointed by that news.

“They’ve only arrived yesterday and it’s already been positively mental,” Sansa chimed in. “And Robert…” She frowned. “I mean, we haven’t seen him in years, but he’s exactly the same as he was when he was six.”

“Even Rickon thinks he’s weird,” Bran said, “and they’re the same age.” Cat had encouraged the two of them to play together, but apparently that hadn’t gone over so well.

Her youngest son spoke up, looking extremely frustrated. “He doesn’t like Doctor Who—he said it was stupid and that people couldn’t really travel through time. And I can’t talk to him about Shireen! I don’t think he’s ever even spoken to a girl,” Rickon complained. “They would think he has cooties. Even _I_ think he has cooties.”

“He _looks_ like he has cooties,” Sansa agreed, stifling a giggle as she took a sip of coffee.

Cat glowered at her daughter. “Sansa! That’s really uncalled for. Robert is only a little boy, and he’s just lost his father. Now I admit that they’re a bit strange—but they’re family, and you are _all_ going to be nice to your aunt and nephew.” She paused and raised her voice a little. “Do I make myself clear?”

Everyone nodded, looking like chastised children—even as adults, Robb and Jon weren’t immune to the power of Catelyn’s warning voice. Shaking her head, Cat went to the cupboard and took out a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread and began slicing it up to make toast. At the huge kitchen table behind her, conversation began to slowly pick up again.

“Her accent is so bloody weird, though,” Arya said. She shot a look at Cat. “Sorry, Mum, but it’s true! You don’t sound like that.”

“Well, I moved to London when I was 18, didn’t I?” Cat said acidly. She put a hand on her hip reprovingly, but secretly couldn’t help but feel amused by her children’s discussion.

“Och, me laddies,” Arya mimicked, tipping her head. Starting to giggle, Sansa joined in. “Cuppa tea, luv?”

Robb chuckled. “I asked her if she wanted some extra towels for the washroom and she told me, ‘Och, ye dinna ken? Oov course ah do!’” He shook his head. “Robert needs lots of towels, apparently.”

“Er… he still breastfeeds, right?” Dany said cautiously.

Everyone’s head whipped around. Dany was blushing. “Well, last night I was going to brush my teeth in the upstairs toilet. So I knocked, but no one answered and I went in—and there she was, sitting on the bath with her son on her lap. I didn’t know what to do.”

Robb started laughing almost uncontrollably, and Dany smacked him. “Oh, do shut up! I don’t judge women on their parenting choices but have to say I was a bit alarmed. He’s nearly ten, after all.”

“Did she… say anything?” Sansa asked curiously.

“She wasn’t embarrassed at all. She just looked at me, irritated, and sort of waved me away.” Dany looked incredulous at this point, and also ready to start laughing. “Like I was royally inconveniencing her. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say, so I just backed out of there and brushed my teeth in the first floor washroom instead!”

Everyone burst into laughter—but just then the back door swung open and in came Lysa herself, along with Robert. Robert was swaddled with so many scarves and hats that he looked like a little walking mummy. Laughter turned into awkward coughing and murmurs, and everyone immediately became very occupied eating their breakfasts.

“Catelyn, I need to use your stove,” Catelyn’s sister said complainingly without so much as a ‘hello.’ She did look a bit mad, wearing a green tartan coat with mossy brown boots and about a dozen mismatched scarves. She had on a large woolly hat and fingerless gloves. “Robert’s come down with something, and I need to make him a tincture. I’ve got ewe’s milk from the market.”

Catelyn turned. “Good morning, Lysa. Certainly, the stove is all yours.”

“But I was going to—” Arya began, but shut up immediately at Catelyn’s warning look in her direction.

Lysa bent down to unwrap little Robert, and Catelyn started at the sight of him. He was as pale as milk, with great gobbets of green snot running down his face. He looked dreadful. “The British weather just isn’t agreeing with him,” Lysa complained.

“Oh—goodness.” She fought to restrain her shock, mindful that everyone at the table was watching her with a mix of amusement and _I-told-you-so_ on their faces. “You just go ahead with the stove, Lysa. Are you sure you don’t want some aspirin for him?”

“No thank you,” Lysa said haughtily. “I don’t trust large pharmaceutical corporations.”

“Er—well. Suit yourself.” Catelyn bent to say hello to Robert. “Good morning, dear. Would you like some toast for breakfast?”

“Yes please,” he said, in a piteous little voice, and it was rather hard not to feel sorry for him. Behind him, Catelyn could see Rickon eyeing him with as much disgust as if he were an alien.

“Right. I’ll put that on for you.” She turned as Lysa moved to the stovetop, selecting a saucepan from the open rack that hung on the wall.

Robert saw the bread in her hand. “Eeeww, does it have raisins in it? I _hate_ raisins,” he said, the tremulous note in his voice matching the one in his mother’s. Catelyn’s pity for him was replaced by a stab of irritation. Spoilt children were possibly her least favorite things on earth.

Just then Ned came in, unwinding his scarf. “Well, it’s a good thing that I’ve got some fresh bread from Hot Pie’s,” he said good-naturedly, producing a large parcel wrapped in brown paper for her. It smelled heavenly.

Catelyn felt a wave of gratitude for her husband. He was being so lovely for their guests, even though she knew perfectly well that her sister and nephew were difficult. And it was not at all typical of Ned to coddle children—had Robert been one of Ned’s own kids, he wouldn’t have been allowed to leave the table until finishing what he was given.

Ned handed Cat the parcel of bread, and she caught his eye above her sister’s head as Lysa pushed past her to rummage through the refrigerator. “Thank you,” she mouthed.

He shrugged back. “No problem,” he mouthed back, and she felt so fond of him in that moment she could have kissed him. That was, if she didn’t have toast to make and a kitchen full of family members to feed.

 

 

**Brienne**

Carefully unlocking her office door, Brienne stepped into the small room. It might be cramped and filled to the brim with old books, but it was the only place where she really felt at home. She quietly gathered up what she needed to work on her dissertation, stacking the books and sliding them into her leather bookbag, and prepared to leave.

She’d just come back to London after a quiet but lovely Christmas with her father. Dad had several old pensioner friends with whom he would celebrate New Years’, and as for Brienne… well, she was ostensibly living the big city life, so she’d sort of led her Dad to believe she’d find plenty of exciting things to do on that particular holiday.

Nobody needed to know that what she really planned on doing was watching an old movie, eating all the chocolate she could buy at Waitrose, and getting sloshed by herself.

As she was crossing to exit through the building’s main doors, Brienne froze in her tracks. Approaching from the other end of the corridor was none other than Jaime Lannister. _What on earth is_ he _doing here?_ But it was too late to turn around, and all Brienne could do was keep going. “Mr Lannister,” she said coolly, when they were just a few strides apart.

“Tarth,” he said, inclining his head at her in response.

He looked rather… tired. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his face looked a bit drawn. Despite that, the green jumper that poked out from under his jacket brought out the green of his eyes to great effect and not for the first time, Brienne reflected with irritation that no man deserved to be so handsome.

“What are you up to?” he asked, approaching her. _Oh, god, does he really want to have a bloody_ conversation _?_

“Just… stopped by for some things,” she said evasively. “Books. For work.”

“On the holiday?” Jaime said, with the same bemused look that Catelyn had worn. What was it with these people? They were all academics; surely the Christmas holiday didn’t strip them of the need to work?

“Yes,” she said crisply, and left it at that.

“Well, that’s very productive of you.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, as though remembering something. “Say, did you ever find that book? The _Serwyn Cycles_?”

Brienne was surprised he remembered. “No, I haven’t found it yet.”

Jaime dug into his leather case for a moment, and then produced the book. “Well, Happy Christmas. Here you have it.” He caught the look in her eye and said pointedly, “I wasn’t withholding on you, I promise. I only just cleaned off my desk and it happened to be there.”

There were many things Brienne could say to that, but she wasn’t going to say any of them. “Thanks,” she said curtly, “Happy Christmas.” She took the book in her hand and started striding away, towards the oak double doors that stood only a few tantalizing meters away.

Lannister, damn him, fell into stride beside her and then cut in front of her. “What, you’re not going to buy me a drink in thanks?” He smiled up at her, something almost playful glinting in his green eyes.

Jaime Lannister managed to make her feel like an awkward fourteen-year-old girl all over again, right down to the uncertainty of the right thing to say and the feeling that a cool boy was taunting her with all the knowledge of the things she didn’t understand. Brienne felt herself turning red.

“No,” she grunted, and tried to move past him. But like a smaller animal, Lannister darted in front of her to block her path.

“Oh, come off it. What else are you doing? Come have a drink with me.”

“No,” Brienne repeated.

“Fine, fine! Chivalry’s not dead. I’ll buy _you_ one, in the spirit of the season. It’s on me.”

She stopped and stared at him. Why was he trying so hard? Was he on some sort of bet? It wouldn’t be the first time that nasty sort of thing had happened to her. There was a reason she didn’t trust men, didn’t date.

As if reading the apprehension in her face, Jaime sighed and opened his arms wide. “Look, I’ve sort of had a shit day. A shit week. A shit _life_ , if you will, and I could really use a drink. That’s all I want, honest: a drinking companion. Come on, Tarth. Please don’t make me drink alone.”

She didn’t know why she agreed, but there was something about the blank appeal in his face. _I’ll regret this later,_ she thought wearily, but it didn’t stop her from following him out of the building and down the street.

They went to the pub around the corner from the university, a slightly dodgy place that she never would’ve guessed a trust-fund kid like Lannister would patronise. It was full of fairy lights and Christmas tinsel that hadn’t yet been taken down, and at this hour in the afternoon it was deserted save for a handful of students and middle-aged people. They settled into a booth by the door.

“So. How was your Christmas?” she asked stiffly.

“As previously stated,” Jaime responded, not looking at her as he removed his quilted leather gloves, “it was absolute shit. Yours?”

She didn’t know what to say to that. “It was nice, thanks.”

“Right.” Jaime stood and went to the bar, returning with two pints. “It’s good stuff,” he said, nodding at the mugs. They sipped in silence for a long time.

“So you come here often?” she said at last, grudgingly taking a stab at conversation.

Jaime shifted in his seat. “Yeah. After work.”

“Oh.”

Another uncomfortably long silence passed, until Brienne’s skin was actually starting to itch from the awkwardness and the pressure of feeling like she had to fill the silence. She stubbornly refused to speak again, though; she wasn’t going to extend herself for a man she didn’t even like. Finally Jaime spoke up.

“So what’s your, ah, paper topic, Tarth? Why are you reading the _Cycles_?”

Brienne grunted. The last thing she wanted to do for Jaime Lannister was outline her research into the era-specific progression of non-romantic female protagonists in secular literature. “Doubt you’d be interested.”

Jaime cocked his head. “Oh, I’m not as stupid as I look. Try me.”

So Brienne explained her topic guardedly, carefully watching his handsome face for any signs of derision. “Anyway, it’s been an interesting search for materials. There’s a wide range of women protagonists in the classic canon, but the majority after the Greco-Roman era are religious heroes. It’s difficult to find accounts of women whose stories aren’t inextricably tied to religion or marriage.” She released a breath and settled back in her seat, waiting for his joke or smart line… but Jaime seemed genuinely intrigued.

“Hmm. What about fairy tales?” he suggested after a moment’s thought. “The majority of the classic tales feature children as protagonists, so the themes of religion and sexuality are less overt.”

Brienne raised an eyebrow, surprised. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Oh, that’s always a good resource. I’d also recommend looking into the anthologies put out by the Sand Snakes Press, which is a small feminist collective based in Sunspear. In terms of critical material, that might help you with sourcing.” Jaime gave a little snort. “I’m obviously not their target audience, but I enjoy reading the perspectives they’ve published. They have some interesting thoughts on the intersection of gender and heroism.”

“Er—thank you,” Brienne said, surprised but meaning it. “I’ll look into it.”

“I’m not a hack, you know.” Jaime raised his eyebrows at her, and she blushed. “I do know my subject matter. Catelyn Stark never would have let me near a podium in the first place if I didn’t.” Brienne nodded a bit grudgingly to acknowledge the point, and he went on. “Though I must say I’m nowhere near as dedicated to my research as _you_ are, Tarth.”

“I want to be a senior lecturer,” Brienne said automatically. She trusted in academia, its tradition and authority. It had been her dream ever since she was a little girl to become of part of something so hallowed.

“Yes, darling, I know. Believe me, I know. The entire department is aware and quite appreciative of your monumental drive. One paper already published in your first year on staff, and now you’re gunning for a second?” Jaime grinned at her over the table. “If I weren’t such a gentleman, I’d say that you’ve got something to prove.”

Brienne rolled her eyes. “Oh, piss off.”

“Nah, I’d rather have another pint. Maybe we should move onto something fancier?” He leaned over and read the specials on the little stand on the table. “Hekinen—whoops. Heineken.”

She looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe we should cut you off, Lannister.”

“Nah, it’s just the fucking dyslexia.” He paused, and fixed her with a stare. His eyes were a little glassy from the alcohol, but he seemed to want to prove his point.

Brienne tried not to show any emotion. “You’re dyslexic?”

“Yeah, when I was a kid.” Jaime laughed without any mirth. “I mean, I suppose I still am. But it’s gotten better. So I never was much good at school, which probably doesn’t surprise you.”

She didn’t know what to say. “I—I didn’t know.”

Jaime seemed to have drawn into himself a bit, drumming his fingers against his pint glass. “Yeah, well. I was a shit student until I found something I loved learning about, and that was the classic stories, the heroes. Finally I felt like I was good at something when it came to school, something other than just sports.”

“Look, school has always been the only thing I was good at,” she said, wanting suddenly to explain herself. “It was all I had going for me. My parents weren’t anyone special. I got into university on my good grades and just kept going.”

Jaime looked up at her knowingly. “So that’s why you can’t stand my teaching approach.”

Brienne pressed her lips together; the last thing she wanted to do was have a disagreement. “I don’t—”

“No, I understand,” Jaime said, with sudden empathy. “I must seem like a hotshot who never does his work. I love my subject, but when it comes to all the rest of it, I’m just not up to par with the kinds of people who grew up devouring books. I know that, Tarth.”

“That’s not true,” Brienne said uneasily. What on earth was going on, that Jaime Lannister was making her play devil’s advocate— _defending_ him?

Jaime fixed her with a calm stare. “But I belong on that faculty because I teach what I know. It’s what we all want, isn’t it – to be the hero of our own journey? Even Joseph Campbell can’t dispute that.”

Brienne swallowed hard and nodded.

“That’s why I like stories so much,” he said easily. “Because they’re clear-cut. Because in stories, people are either all good or all bad. The hero does his or her good deeds and returns home, triumphant. There’s no murky struggle or mundaneness of the day-to-day. You see?”

Brienne felt slightly stunned. She had not expected to hear her innermost feelings voiced by a man she couldn’t stand. “Right,” she said, swallowing. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”  

That decided it. Before Lannister could say anything more, open his mouth and reveal some other secret that would make her feel weirdly sympathetic to him, Brienne got to her feet. “Next round’s on me,” she told him, and strode off decisively toward the bar.

Stranger things had happened. But Brienne thought it was best, in any case, to keep drinking.

 

 

 **Stannis**  

“Have you found it yet, daddy?” Shireen called up the stairs.

“Just a moment, Shireen,” he called back.

Try as he might, Stannis had never been able to understand the contents of women’s bags. True, his daughter was still more girl than actual woman, but the various school supplies and hair accessories inside her rucksack were just as confusing to him as the insides of his late wife’s handbag. ( _That_ had been the spawn of a million petty arguments, always starting with Stannis being utterly incapable of finding whatever it was Selyse needed when she was too busy to get it herself.)

He was displeased to find that even with Shireen’s schoolbag, he was out of his depth. He’d genuinely expected that a primary schoolchild’s bag would be a lot easier to rummage through. _What else could be in there but school supplies, anyway?_ Cursing his own inadequacy, Stannis dreaded the day that Shireen would become a teenager, leaving him completely unable to tell the difference between what was liquid eyeliner and what was a permanent marker.

At length he gave up and began to blindly feel his way through the rucksack, searching for the particular blue pen Shireen wanted. His fingers settled on a loose slip of paper, and he frowned in confusion. _Is this some quiz result Shireen forgot to show me? Her scores have been perfect so far._ Smoothing out the small sheet of lined paper properly, Stannis began to read.

It was an essay he’d never seen, entitled “Why I Love the Holidays.” The assignment had received an A+ from Shireen’s favorite teacher, Ms Fossoway. He remembered that the teacher had praised his daughter’s writing skills in their parent-teacher conference, even remarking that Shireen’s work was a reprieve from what most of Shireen’s classmates turned in.

The first few paragraphs were difficult to read, discussing Shireen’s perception of family before her mother had passed away. Stannis frowned hard, trying to keep his emotions at bay. Although a lot of time had passed between Selyse’s diagnosis and eventual passing, Stannis had always been afraid to ask his daughter about her feelings on what was happening. He feared that he wouldn’t be able to handle what she might say. Even now, after Selyse was gone, they rarely discussed it.

So after reading through the essay’s introduction, Stannis found himself biting his lip until it was numb. Shireen wrote about how often she missed her mother, but also how she refused to let herself stay sad for long. After an intense battle with cancer, wasn’t it fair that her mom was finally at peace with the angels, instead of being too sick to stand on her own? Shireen seemed to think so and as rational as Stannis was, he had to agree. Then he read the final paragraph.

_For my dad and me now, family means my dad’s friend Davos. Davos is so nice. He comes over and makes dinner with us. He watches Doctor Who with me and has grown-up talk with my dad. He makes my dad smile, and my dad doesn’t smile a lot. Even though Davos isn’t related to us, he is my family. I hope to spend a lot of time with my family over this holiday, and that makes me very happy._

Stannis carefully folded Shireen’s checked essay and stowed it in her rucksack once again. Then without allowing himself time to think—only reminding himself that he was doing this for Shireen—he picked up his mobile phone and began to dial. Davos picked up on the second ring.

After hanging up the call, Stannis descended the stairs into the kitchen, where Shireen sat determinedly trying to finish his crossword puzzle. She lifted her head as he came in. “Daddy! Did you find my pen?”

“No—but I’ve got something better to tell you.”

Shireen’s mouth fell open. “What? What is it?"

“Guess who’s coming with us to the Starks’ for New Year’s?” Stannis said with deliberate calm. He took a deep breath. “His name starts with a ‘D’ and ends with an ‘avos’…”

“Davos? Davos is coming?!” At Stannis’s nod, Shireen sprang up from her chair, rushed over, and threw her arms around him in excitement. It wasn’t difficult for Stannis to wrap one arm around his daughter, hugging her tightly back as she shrieked in delight in his ear.

 

 

**Jon**

Dany was in the front room, curled up on the sofa engrossed in a book. Jon saw her as he came down the front stairs and then hastily backed up, head spinning as he deliberated, hoping that she hadn’t noticed the telltale creaking of the steps. Should he go in? Say hello? Or just tiptoe around to the kitchen and pretend he hadn’t seen her?

Robb hadn’t been able to get two uninterrupted weeks of time off, so had headed back down to London the day after Christmas with promises to return on New Years’ Eve. Jon had spent the majority of Robb’s absence sidling awkwardly around the house, knowing exactly where Dany was at any given moment or fretting if he didn’t. He tried to do other things or to just get his mind on something else, but it was no use. He was drawn to Dany like a moth to a flame.

Deciding that avoidance was the best current line of action, Jon stealthily rounded the corner and went into the kitchen. There he almost collided with Arya, who was wearing her anorak and a canvas rucksack with snowboarding boots slung over her arm, clearly on her way to dash out the back door.

“Whoa, whoa,” he said with an easy laugh, holding his hands out in defeat. “I give!”

Arya paused with a look of slight apology on her face. She slipped her giant headphones slightly off her ears, Lady Sovereign leaking from the earpieces.

“Sorry,” she said, shooting him a grin. “I didn’t see you there. Or hear you, really.”

“I got that,” Jon said, rubbing his arm in a show of mock hurt. “Where are you in such a rush to go, anyway?”

Arya grew suddenly evasive, drawing back. “Er, just meeting a friend. We’re going snowboarding up on Aegon’s Hill.”

“I’m sure I can guess who the friend is,” Jon said, unable to resist the urge to rib his little cousin about her not-so-secret secret. Arya’s face got fiercely red, but she rolled her eyes with Sansa-worthy disdain.

“Whatever,” she said, pushing him out of her way. “See you later.”

“Right,” Jon said after her, watching her barrel her way out the back door, before turning back to smile to himself. _Oh, Arya._ Then he looked to the electric kettle, musing. Should he ask Dany first and seem overly solicitous, or just appear a little over eager and just show up with tea in hand?

In the end he risked it and showed up in the door to the front room bearing two steaming mugs and clearing his throat awkwardly to announce himself. His heart was hammering in his chest.

“Saw you reading and thought you might want a cuppa,” he said, and cringed even after he said it. He sounded like somebody’s creepy uncle.

But Dany glanced up from her book right away, and her eyes lit up when she saw him standing there. “Wow, thank you!” She reached up to accept her steaming cup, careful not to let anything spill over the sides. Seeing how perfectly the sunlight fell across her face as she leaned into it, Jon was caught by a sudden urge to draw her. “I see the ancestral family home comes with full service,” Dany teased, her blue eyes sparkling.

He was pulled back to reality. “Oh—yeah. Well, especially when Robb’s not here. Someone’s got to wait on you hand and foot.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Dany said, laughing. “Robb’s great, but—well, even he could use some improvements in the husband department.” She winked at Jon. “But don’t tell him I said that.”

 _Why did I have to go bring up Robb?_ The last thing Jon wanted to do was listen to Dany wax on about Robb’s stellar qualities—it would only make him feel like even more of a spineless shit than he already was. “I didn’t know if you take sugar,” he said, shifting from foot to foot. “So I, um, hope you like it.”

Dany took a sip and made a face of shock. “Wow! Strong. It’s brilliant, thanks. I have to say that nothing beats good old British tea.”

“Well, that’s high praise,” Jon said, smiling hesitantly, “for someone who’s quite the world traveller.”

She didn’t say anything, just took another sip of her tea and smiled back at him. Seeing that, Jon forgot what he was going to say. He would have done anything to spend the rest of his life just standing there, having her smile at him that way. The feeling made him suddenly brave, and he spoke before every cowardly nerve could stop him.

“Could I, um—”

He nodded at the divan and Dany nodded almost eagerly, pulling up one of the giant Laura Ashley-printed throw pillows that Jon remembered from the early ‘80s to make room for Jon to sit. He’d only stay for a moment. Or whatever, as long as he could without it seeming weird.

“So what are you reading?” he asked, settling onto the sofa.

Dany lifted the book with one hand to display the cover. “Harry Potter,” she said, almost sheepishly. Then she grinned.

“The fourth one,” Jon observed, raising an eyebrow. He took a sip of tea. “Are you rereading the series, or…”

She shook her head. “This one’s just one of my favourites. I like the dragons.”

Jon bit back his smile. “Oh. Guess I couldn’t really tell from those earrings you’ve been wearing.”

“Oh, these?” Dany smiled, absent-mindedly drawing her fingers to the silver dragon that snaked around her right ear. “I got it from a thrift shop in New York once. One of the best shopping places in the world, if you ask me.”

“Yeah,” Jon agreed, warming to the topic. “It takes a bit of wandering to find exactly what you want, though. I always used to find the most interesting things in Bushwick.”

“Yeah, I—wait, you’ve been?” Dany asked with interest, drawing her knees up around her. “I never knew that.”

Jon nodded. “I treated myself to a trip to New York back in the day, when I’d just finished uni. The graphic design scene was what drew me in, but then I eventually decided to base myself here instead.” He shrugged a bit ruefully. “Home’s still got its charms, I suppose.”

“Funny, that,” Dany said, interestedly. “I went on a rather long trip after university as well—not New York though; I arrived there a few years later. The Louvre was where I wanted to go most after school I used to dream about it.”

“Well. The Paris art scene is incomparable.” Jon smiled. “It wouldn’t be fair to call it _the_ place for art, but you gotta admit…”

“It’s _the_ place for art,” she agreed, laughing a little. “When I first set eyes on the actual Venus de Milo, that basically sealed the deal.”

“Yeah, Venus is always a favourite, isn’t it?” Jon asked. “And you saw Nike, I’m sure.”

Dany nodded vigorously, her eyes bright. “Yes, of course! I prioritised the Greek sculptures before the paintings so I pretty much got to see all of them. Plus I stayed in Paris for nearly a year, so there was a lot of time for repeat visits.”

 _Of course you did._ “So you’ve been to the Louvre, and you got to see my favourite sculpture of all time. Right,” Jon said slowly, shifting to his feet and pretending to leave the room, “that’s it, then. I don’t even know why we’re still talking when clearly I’ve got nothing to add to this conversation.”

“No, don’t go!” Dany laughed, motioning for Jon to sit back down beside her. “I’ve got something to show you.” She pulled out her phone with a grand air.

From his many drinking sessions with Robb, Jon had heard that Dany had some bohemian, slightly rebellious tendencies. He never expected that these would include standing directly behind the Venus de Milo and placing both arms precariously over the stumps on either side of the sculpture, making for a great picture and an equally great security scare.

“Oh my god,” Jon said quietly, staring the picture on at Dany’s phone, not knowing whether to laugh out loud or simply stare incredulously. Didn’t this sort of thing only happen in movies? “I don’t believe this—how the hell did you get past security?”

“I sort of have magical powers,” Dany winked. After a few beats of looking at Jon’s uncomfortable look of consternation, she burst out laughing. “And I couldn’t really walk past Venus and deny myself the perfect picture.”

“Unbelievable,” Jon shook his head, laughing just as hard as she was. “Funny how it all turned out in the end, huh?”

“Yeah.” She laughed, clicking off her mobile and sliding back into her jeans pocket. “In the end I came back to England, and…. here I am. Boring, old, and married.”

“You’re not boring,” he protested, hoping that it didn’t come out sounding too eager. “Or… so old, really.”

Dany laughed. “Well, thank you.” She paused. “By the way, it’s really nice of you to hang out with me, Jon. You probably have loads of things you need to do and I don’t want to distract you, but… just thanks.”

“Oh,” Jon said, forcing himself to sound casual. “Yeah, well. It’s not like Winterfell’s that interesting most of the time. We all have to band together if we don’t want to die of boredom.”

“No,” Dany said, leaning forward and taking Jon’s hand. He felt like he might explode. “I mean it. It means a lot that you’re being so nice to me.”

He was barely tolerating her presence, sure, but not in the way she seemed to think. “What do you mean?” he hazarded.

“I guess I kind of thought that—you didn’t like me,” Dany said hesitantly, and then released an embarrassed little breath just saying it. She looked almost shy. “For a while. You never used to talk to me, when we and Robb were all together.”

Jon wanted to sink through the floor. “No!” he said in a strangled way. “No, not at all… it’s just— I mean, we never had much chance to talk, did we? Just the two of us? I think we’d have gotten on quite well from the start, if we’d just had a chance to talk things through. From the start, that is.”

He sounded like a gibbering idiot. But Dany, nodding thoughtfully, seemed to find what he was saying quite sensible. She drew back, mercifully releasing his hand (which was starting to sweat with her proximity and _gorgeousness_ ), and gazed at him with those heartstoppingly blue eyes.

“That’s what Robb said,” she said. “That you just take a bit of time to warm up to people.”

 _Oh, Christ, she has no idea._ Jon hated the idea of her and Robb discussing him, shaking their heads with concern. The two of them were perfect for one another—people who were beautiful inside and out, who had always felt comfortable in their own lives, who made others love them just for their sheer decency. Then there was him, the problem. The one who never got it right, had been _born_ wrong, and who had absolutely no business running around mucking up other people’s perfect, brand-new marriages.

“Well, I’m glad you warmed up to me,” she said, smiling at him, before settling back against the pillows, opening her book again, and beginning to read. She sipped her mug of tea and turned the page. She never looked more beautiful to him then, just like this.

He watched her miserably.

 

 

**Sansa**

Although she’d developed quite the plan for New Years’ Eve with Arya, Sansa hadn’t so much as texted her best friend in over three days. And in best friend time, that was an eon.

Sansa’s paper was due on January the fifth and even though she really could have used the study time and the cross-referencing with Margaery, Sansa was too nervous to message Marg at all. She’d tried to finish her sources page last night, slumped over in front of her laptop for hours, but had hardly been able to concentrate. Not even summoning the thought of Prince Charming personally encouraging her to finish her work with one of his famous lecture-brightening smiles could make her finish her page. All she could think about was Margaery, and how much she wanted to talk to Margaery, and also how much she _didn’t_ want to.

She really ought to be trying to finish her work, but there was nothing for it. Sansa decided that nothing would make her feel better except re-watching _Pride and Prejudice_ with Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle. If six hours of Jane Austen couldn’t cure what ailed her, she thought grimly, then she really was beyond all hope.

Sansa had just settled onto the sofa and begun the first scene, the English countryside unfolding gloriously across the screen before her, when Dany stepped into the family room. Sansa paused the film, twisting her head around. “Oh, hullo Dany!”

Ever since Robb had gone Dany had been drifting around the house, helping Mum and doing other things—but Sansa thought that it must be at least a little lonely for Dany to be here without Robb. Dany hovered in the doorway, looking with interest at the screen. “I love this film,” she said, smiling tentatively as she tucked a strand of white-blond hair behind her ear. “I mean, the Keira version is good, but you really can’t beat Colin Firth. Would you mind if I joined you?”

Sansa smiled back. “Oh, not at all.” She tipped her head at the room around them. “I would’ve watched in the TV room, but Bran’s in there watching University Challenge and, well… he gets a bit intense about that. He doesn’t like to be interrupted.”

Bran was scary smart, and his life’s ambition was to be on University Challenge. Dany, who’d gotten trapped playing an endless round of Trivial Pursuit with him on Christmas Day, nodded wide-eyed and then laughed. “I’ve noticed.” She came and sat down beside Sansa, and then turned as the thought seemed to strike her. “Would you like a cup of tea while we watch?” she asked brightly. “And there are tins and tins of biscuits left over, how about some of those too?”

Sansa turned. “Oh, no, Dany. Let me get it, you’re a guest—”

“I’m family now, Sansa,” Dany chided, smiling, and got to her feet. “And it’s nice to feel helpful.” Sansa smiled back, waiting as Dany disappeared up the stairs. She really liked Robb’s new wife, though they’d only ever spent time together at family gatherings, and it was nice to have the chance to get better acquainted now. After a few moments Dany returned carefully bearing two steaming mugs of tea. “So, how’s it like being married?” Sansa asked, accepting her cup warmly and taking a tentative sip.

Dany’s face broke into a broad smile as she settled down onto the sofa. “Oh, well—it’s brilliant, really. Seeing Robb every day and knowing that he’s _mine_ is nothing short of amazing. Sometimes it still feels as if we’re two kids playing house, you know? We both work long hours and sometimes we come home and both go, ‘What’s on for supper?’ It’s so funny… sometimes I can’t believe that it’s actually all _real_.”

Sansa smiled genuinely. “It sounds fantastic.”

Dany nodded, still looking a bit dreamy. “It is. But I have to say, it’s been truly wonderful to become part of his family— _your_ family. All of you have been so kind and I really appreciate it.”

Sansa reached out and squeezed Dany’s hand. “Well, it’s been so nice to have you here, Dany. Truly.”

Just then there was a clatter of feet, and they both turned around. Arya, Jon, and Gendry had appeared at the foot of the stairs, Arya and Gendry neck-and-neck with Jon hanging back somewhat tentatively behind them. “A film?” Arya said brightly, coming into the room. “Oh, brilliant.” She nodded at her companions. “Nothing else doing, so we may as well watch this, right?”

Sansa eyed her younger sister sceptically, drawing both knees up to her chest. “You used to make fun of me for watching _Pride and Prejudice_ , Arya.” Unable to resist airing old slights, she added pointedly, “You said it was for old cat ladies and girls with unrealistic romantic expectations.”

“Well, I didn’t know any better, did I? We read Austen in school, and it’s good stuff.” Arya waved her hand dismissively. “I mean, it’s still a bit drippy, not bad overall.” Looking as if she absolutely wouldn’t be swayed, she plopped down at the end of the sofa and Gendry followed suit. Jon sat down at somewhat of a distance from everyone else, and there was a round of chorused ‘hellos’ as everyone got themselves arranged comfortably.

“ _Stop_ ,” Arya complained loudly, breaking the mild silence that had settled over the room, and jabbed Gendry in the ribs with an elbow as he tried to sling his arm around her.

Sansa stifled a laugh and got to her feet. “I’ll make some popcorn, shall I?”

Dany turned her head. “But Sansa, you’re the one who wanted to watch this film in the first place…”

“No, that’s all right,” she said quickly, handing Dany the clicker. She wanted to see Arya and Gendry in action, and had a feeling it would be much more interesting from a different vantage point. “I’ve seen it loads of times. Don’t wait for me!”

When she came back down the stairs, steaming bowl of popcorn in hand, Jennifer Ehle was telling Colin Firth off on the telly screen and Gendry had managed to successfully loop his arm around Arya’s shoulders. Arya’s head wasn’t quite touching Gendry’s, but it was definitely leaning in his general direction. _I knew it!_ Sansa pulled out her mobile one-handed and snapped a quick, silent photo of the two of them, hardly able to contain her glee.

Then Sansa turned to glance at the other end of the sofa, and had quite a shock—lowering her phone, she couldn’t help but stare. Dany and Jon had somehow closed the distance between them and were sitting close to one another on the sofa. They weren’t doing anything, weren’t even touching—but looked, somehow, exactly as a couple would.

 _How strange_ , Sansa thought, a bit jarred. She must just have love on the brain, that was all. Clearing her throat, she came around the front of the sofa, smiling and making some motions to sit down.  Jon hastily moved away from Dany, averting his eyes, and Dany, who hadn’t moved from her earlier position, glanced away from the screen to smile and make space for Sansa.

Sansa nodded at the two of them, leaned over to hand Dany the popcorn, and settled back onto the cushions. _That’s so bizarre… but it must just have been my imagination. Right?_

After a few minutes, the film had sucked her in and everything Sansa had just seen was quickly forgotten as she surrendered to the timeless power of a dashingly rumpled Colin Firth in a loosened cravat, struggling to articulate his feelings. Sansa sighed happily, leaning back against the sofa. _It works every time_.

 

 

**Cersei**

Cersei stood in front of the open freezer, surveying its contents. She reached in for the tub of double chocolate raspberry gelato when she realized what she was doing and stopped herself. She hastily shut the freezer door with a noise of disgust. This was getting pathetic. Who was she, Bridget Jones?

Cersei certainly hoped not. She was alone in her gorgeous designer apartment in her ivory and gold-striped silk pyjamas, drinking a freshly opened bottle of Cerasuolo di Vittoria, on her own because Aunt Genna had insisted on taking the kids for a few days over the holidays. Cersei hated that woman, but had to admit she was good with Cersei’s kids—and for that she was able to stand Genna, if only a little.

To mitigate her loneliness she’d tried phoning Joff earlier, but he’d been hard to reach on the phone and when they’d finally spoken, he’d sounded irritated. “What is it, Mum?” he’d said snappishly, and she’d felt a wave of irritation before quelling it. Of course he’d rather be off frolicking in the Turks & Caicos than phoning his boring old mum. Joffrey had always been a little difficult; it only made her love him all the more. Besides, she was used to it—it had always been hard, in some way or another, with all the men in her life.

Why was that? She had a sneaking suspicion that most armchair psychologists would tell her she had daddy issues. Cersei distrusted anyone who tried to tell her how she should and should not feel, but had to admit that the greatest spectre in her life was the image of her father’s disdainful expression when he looked at her to tell her that she’d failed. (He’d never even let her try, but there you had it. Jaime had never wanted to be part of the Lannister family company, but Cersei had never even been offered a chance to show what she might be able to offer.) It was bad enough that when she finally divorced Robert after his third go-round in rehab, she’d found herself near penniless by her own standards. She’d had to swallow all her pride to ask her father for money, and it still ranked as one of the most humiliating moments in her life.

Never mind the fact that by anyone’s standards but Tywin’s, Cersei did have a rather successful career of her own. She’d gotten quite famous in her own right as Robert Baratheon’s model wife; people always had a fascination with that sort of thing. She was never a Jerry Hall or Victoria Beckham, you had to be a professional clotheshorse to garner that kind of fame, but enough people knew Cersei’s name that she’d been able to parlay her fame into an interior design business. Shallow stuff, but she was very exclusive, and only worked with a top stable of clients. She’d maximised her profits within two years as a start-up business and designed for Bianca Jagger, Adele, and the like. Try telling Cersei’s father that, though, and he’d look at you cross-eyed, as if the kind of work that she was doing were completely insignificant. It didn’t matter; Cersei would never be able to win with him. She finished her glass, poured another, and surveyed the contents of her kitchen table. Oh yes, the mail. Might as well achieve something practical while she was sitting about with absolutely nothing else to do.

With a businesslike deep breath, she picked up her letter opener and reached for the first envelope in the pile.

She opened the envelope, whose return address was a law firm she didn’t recognize, drew out its contents, and froze. It was from Robert—and it was alimony. Cersei’s mouth fell open when she saw the amount. _Seriously?_ Her alimony payments had been non-existent for the last few years… and this was the kind of money that she hadn’t been used to seeing from Robert in ages.

She suddenly had an overwhelming urge to ring Jaime, but it seemed like that door was closed. But Cersei desperately needed to talk to someone, so she mustered her courage and phoned her brother anyway. Mercifully, he picked up on the fourth ring.

“Cersei?” She breathed in heavily just hearing his voice.

“Hello, Jaime.”

There was a pregnant pause. She heard her brother clearing his throat on the other line. “Listen,” he said, after a few moments of agonising silence, “I’m really sorry about Christmas. I didn’t mean to storm out like that. Are the kids okay?”

 _Right. Christmas._ Cersei had almost managed to forget the debacle that had been, trying to convince herself that it hadn’t happened. “It’s all right,” she said after a moment, and found that she meant it. “Tom and Myrcella are fine. They were upset, but they got over it.”

Jaime let out a deep breath. “Right. I’m glad to hear that.” Another pause. “So, I’ve sent Myrcella a package—some late Christmas presents, if you will. We were talking about books at Christmas and I thought she might like these ones. It’s a trilogy.”

“That’s very kind of you, Jaime.” She traced a pattern on the countertop with one finger. “I’ll be sure to give that to her.”

“So…” Jaime hesitated on the line. “How are you?”

She flipped the envelope over in her hand. All her reasons for phoning were going into a glorious haze just hearing his deep voice. Was it always going to be like this? Living her life falling in and out of love with her brother, as long as they both lived? “Well, I’ve just had a letter from Robert.”

“Really? What, is he doing some sort of ten-step plan?”

“It’s alimony,” she said slowly. “Over five hundred thousand pounds. He’s already getting returns.”

There was a pause. “Well, that’s no surprise. The bloody song’s been playing everywhere.”

“He sent presents on Christmas, too. I expect he’ll be wanting visitation with the kids, soon.” Cersei made a small scornful noise, but the very thought made her nervous. She didn’t know if the children were ready for that again.

“He _is_ their father, Cersei,” Jaime replied neutrally, and her stomach turned to hear him say it. That was right. She had pushed Jaime out of the kids’ lives, trying to give them some semblance of normalcy. Now she counted it as just another mistake in her long history of bad decisions.

“I know.” She tapped her fingers. “He’s such an idiot, but I almost feel like… maybe he could be coming round. I don’t know.”

She heard her brother sigh on the other line, and her stomach tensed, waiting for the blow. “Cersei, why did you phone me?”

Cersei paused, staring around at her beautiful, empty flat. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “I just needed somebody to talk to.”

There was a very long silence. She listened, hardly daring to breathe. “Do you want me to come over?” Jaime offered finally.

Her heart tugged at last. He still cared. Oh, she knew that he did. Abruptly, though, she thought of the last time they’d spoken and what Jaime had said. _He said he had to make himself fall out of love with me, or he couldn’t go on._

She made herself say the words, slowly and calmly. “That’s all right. You don’t need to.” It hurt more than she had expected to say it, but she was a grown woman. She could handle this.

Her brother let out a sharp sigh, and only then did she realise how relieved he was. “All right, then, Cersei. Have—have you got things to do tomorrow night?”

Her heart leapt again—would she never stop feeling this way, like a teenager, when it came to him?—before she recognised his tone. It wasn’t an invitation. Tomorrow was New Year’s Eve, and he was checking on her, checking to see if she was keeping well and busy.

“I’m going to parties,” she replied haughtily. “I’ve got plans.” This was true. She had Alexandra Shulman’s fete to attend, not to mention Lady Windsor’s.

“Right.” Jaime laughed. He sounded better. More confident, more like himself. “Well, I’ll look for your photo in the papers. Happy New Year’s, Cersei.”

“Happy New Year’s, darling,” she replied calmly, and hung up. In the silence after the click, she set her phone on the cold marble countertop and wrapped both arms around herself, willing herself not to feel so empty and alone. Generosity wasn’t supposed to feel this way. She needed to pick herself up and move on.

Jaime had always loved Cersei more, but she had always _needed_ him more. Somehow, sitting alone in her kitchen at the age of forty-two, Cersei didn’t think this was a good way to continue living. Something needed to change, and she needed to try to let Jaime go. Even if, like most New Year's Resolutions, this one was broken by January, she needed to try.

Jaime was changing. Robert, too, seemed to be changing—for the better. It was very strange, and Cersei was suddenly inspired to consider making changes of her own. She wasn’t happy now, she knew that much…but then, the moments of happiness in her life had been so infrequent that she could hardly recognise them when they came, seizing them only in hindsight. Still. It was time to make more of those moments, or at the very least to try.

 _New Year’s Resolutions_ , she thought determinedly. _Have I got any to make? Maybe. I think so. Yes._

 

 

 


	7. New Year's Eve

#  _New Year’s Eve_

 

 

**Brienne – 2 PM**

She woke up with a groan to the buzzing sound of her mobile phone. Mashing her face into her pillow, Brienne reached blindly over to the nightstand, fished around for several seconds before her fingers closed on the offending object, and opened her eyes blearily to see that she had a new text. But the time blinking on her mobile screen came as more of a shock. _2 p.m.? What?!_

Against her better judgment, she’d gone out for another companionable pint with Jaime Lannister the previous night. This time around, however, things had not ended up being so low-key. They’d ended up in a series of progressively darker nightclubs with increasingly stronger drinks until Brienne could hardly remember staggering into her flat at 4:30 a.m. that morning.

She _really_ hadn’t intended to continue having anything social to do with that man, but Brienne had stupidly mentioned the first time they’d gone for drinks that she would be in the reference library the following day. Jaime had shown up at her study corral looking entirely too pleased with himself, and he’d absolutely refused to go away until she agreed to another drink with him that evening.

Nor did Brienne remember giving Jaime Lannister her mobile number—but apparently at some point in the previous night, she had. Or rather Jaime had taken it upon himself to give his number to _her_ , given that he was listed in her mobile as “pROFESSOR Lannister the #1 SLAYAH.”

 **What do you say we make a repeat of last night?** was what the #1 SLAYAH had texted her.

 

She stared at her phone incredulously, and then rubbed her head. _God_ , did she have a hangover. This was so embarrassing.

 

**Never would have thought it, but you make a good drinking mate.**

 

Brienne felt herself actually blushing. _Really?_ she chastised herself. _Why should you care what_ he _thinks?_

 

**Come on. It’s not as if you’ve got other plans.**

 

Her mouth dropped open slightly. The nerve of him, to assume—

 

**I’m not just being an ass. You confessed it to me last night rather tearfully. You may not remember that part.**

 

Brienne clapped a hand over her mouth in disbelief. _This_ was why she rarely drank. Bad things happened when she drank. Bad, bad things, like spilling the contents of her soul to a man she absolutely could not stand. But even so… she had to admit that Jaime Lannister was a hell of a lot more palatable when she was drunk.

She got up and padded into the kitchen, wincing in the bright white winter light that streamed through the windows, and then clumsily began putting on a pot of coffee. As it brewed, Brienne rooted around in the cupboards for some paracetamol and swallowed them dry, quickly turning the situation over in her mind. So what would it be? Staying in on New Year’s Eve like a sad sack, or going out for yet another drink with a man she wasn’t sure she even liked?

Again, Brienne was not exactly sure why she said yes.

 

 

**Jon – 3 PM**

So much for Jon’s legendary willpower.

After that scene in the front family room (which was his fault, admittedly: he’d been the one to bring Dany tea and invite conversation), and then the absolutely torturous viewing of _Pride and Prejudice_ (he’d hardly been able to pay attention to the film at all, only Dany and the look on her face as she’d watched), Jon had made an executive decision. He threw some hasty lies at the family about needing to finish commissions before the New Year, tossed his clothes into a bag, and taken the 5:00 train back down to London. Robb had pleaded work, so why shouldn’t he? Jon knew with every fibre of his being that if he remained at Winterfell with Dany without Robb there as a buffer, nothing good could possibly come of it.

So now Jon was back in his own flat, relishing the anonymity of the city and the bit of breathing room he’d so desperately needed. He would have to return to Winterfell for the New Year’s Party that evening, there was no avoiding that. But he’d gained a few valuable days to himself to work on his art and to try and clear his head.

He refused to let himself draw Dany—that would be crossing a line; that would be too much (never mind the fact that he’d already filled half a sketchbook with tentative line drawings, always stopping himself before finishing or finalizing her image). Instead Jon had started a new painting of his mother, Lyanna. It always felt strange to go back to acrylic after being dependent on digital rendering for so long, but Jon considered this new painting his present to himself after finishing the large customised rendering he’d done as Ned’s Christmas gift.

On his canvas Lyanna was seated in the shade of a large oak tree, left knee drawn up to her chest. Perched against her curled up right leg was the small ukulele Jon’s uncle Brandon had bought for her fourteenth birthday. A fledgling singer-songwriter, Lyanna had passed away when Jon was three in a much-publicised car crash with her boyfriend, Jon’s father, at the wheel. As much as it hurt to admit, Jon hardly remembered her: all he had to go on were the little things Ned had shared when Jon was younger, and that wasn’t much. Ned was a man of few words on any occasion, and he closed up with dull, painful grief when talking about his deceased sister. Just asking questions about his mother made Jon feel that he was intruding on Ned’s privacy—even though he painfully knew that these scraps of information were all he had left of his mother.

For the colour of the ukulele he eventually settled on a mahogany slightly lighter than the shade of the tree, and carefully began stroking on the paint with light movements of his brush. In truth Jon was stalling, because no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t finalize Lyanna’s expression without her resembling a puzzled or cross Arya. It didn’t make sense—hadn’t he seen enough pictures of his mother to draw her from “life”? But no matter how many times he’d flipped through his mother’s old photo albums or listened to her recorded LPs and old unreleased tapes, he still couldn’t get it right. Frustrated, Jon set down his brush.

The doorbell rang. Assuming it was the McDonald’s takeaway he’d ordered a few minutes back, Jon stood and went to the door. But when he opened it, he was paralysed for a moment in shock.

“D—Dany?”

“Hi, Jon!” Dany said, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. She was bundled up in a trench coat and what looked like three layers of Christmas jumpers in various shades of red and black. “This is rather sudden, I know. Are you busy?”

“Um—I—” Jon draped his body across the doorway, his every nerve lighting up like a string of fairy lights. There were about a thousand and one reasons why Dany couldn’t come in, including that his flat was in shambles, his art was everywhere, and the thought of Dany inside actually made Jon’s heart feel like it might turn inside out. “I thought you were still at Winterfell with everyone. Why are you… What are you doing in the city today?”

 “Oh, I just came down for the day.” Dany pulled off her mittens and rubbed her hands together, smiling up at him. “Catelyn needed some last minute ingredients from London because the caterers forgot something. She was practically going mad, so I insisted she let me go. She’s so busy already—mind if I come in?”

Before he had a chance to answer in the negative, she had darted in under his arm. Dusting the snowflakes off her trench coat, Dany slowly undid the buttons as she took in the interior of Jon’s flat with wide eyes.

“Right,” he said self-consciously, following her inside. He draped himself against the wall, and pointedly not offering to take her coat. It was so impolite that he was physically hurting himself, but Jon was trying to make a point. “So, er, what brings you _here_?”

“Oh yes, God, sorry about that,” Dany answered blithely, slinging her coat over a chair.“I tend to just roll with whatever seems convenient and fail to explain sometimes. It’s kind of been a habit of mine ever since I was little.” She shrugged, turning to smile at him.

“I can see that,” Jon reflected, crossing his arms over his chest with a nod before checking himself. “I mean—I wouldn’t know how you were when you were little, but—”

“It’s fine, Jon, honestly.” Dany gave a soft laugh, and he hoped desperately she wouldn’t notice that he was blushing. She gazed up at him with her big violet eyes, looking a bit sly. “Actually—and I know this is a bit sneaky, and I’m sorry—but I came here to check on the wedding photos.”

Jon stared at her blankly, and instantly Dany narrowed her eyes. “You know… the photos of me and Robb? The ones you said you would edit?” She was inching towards his living room, the room he’d converted into his studio, and warning bells went off in his head.

“Oh, right!” he answered, hastily stepping around her. _Oh, fantastic. Just—bloody—great._ He played dumb for as long as he could stand, crossing to his easel and surreptitiously turning it around. The last thing he needed was for her to start getting intrigued about his personal art, on top of the mess that was his personal photography.

But Dany stayed where she was in the entry of his living room. She looked a bit apologetic, tipping her head to one side. “The ones you’ve already finished are gorgeous, of course, practically all my Facebook friends are in love with them. And that book you gave us for Christmas—that was so beautiful, Jon, I can’t thank you enough.” She paused. “It’s just that I was hoping to see your digital copies from the wedding. We hardly have any couples photos posted up and everyone—I, especially—would really like to see them.”

Dany finished and looked at him expectantly. Hating himself, Jon lied, “Yeah… Dany, I apologise, but they’re not quite finished yet.”

“Not finished?” Dany echoed, and her hopeful expression slid into a disappointed frown. Jon felt a sharp pang of guilt shoot across his chest for lying. “Oh.” She swallowed. “I really don’t want to trouble you, Jon… but it _has_ been a few months. I only figured they’d be—”

“No, I’m afraid they aren’t,” Jon cut her off loudly, feeling like a real wanker. He shook his head firmly. “They…they just aren’t.”

“Ah,” Dany said a bit awkwardly. “Okay. Right. Might I ask when we can finally see them? Just, you know, an estimate?”

“Uhhh.” _Think. Just bloody think._ “I’ll try to fix them up before next month ends! Maybe.”

“Maybe?” she repeated, the slightest hint of suspicion in her tone. “That means you’re not sure?”

“No—I…” Jon’s head was physically hurting at this point. “Yes, they… Er, look, Dany, d’you mind if I head to the loo for a second? I’m so sorry, it’s just that I’ve been working for a long time and—”

“Oh no, of course,” Dany said hastily, looking really embarrassed on his behalf. _If I keep this up,_ Jon thought miserably, _maybe my stomach’s actually going to decide to start hurting_. “Of course, go ahead.”                                                                                     

“Right, just—er—make yourself comfortable,” Jon mumbled, before ducking into the loo and locking the door behind him. There he angrily kicked the base of the toilet bowl, cursed, and started hopping up and down in silent agony. _She’s out there asking a perfectly reasonable question and you play her off with, ‘Sorry but I’ve got to take a shit?’ What in God’s name is_ wrong _with you?_

For five endlessly long minutes, Jon closed his eyes and sat on the closed seat of the toilet, softly massaging his temples. _Why? Why did you have to talk about Harry Potter and New York and the fucking picture she took behind the Venus de Milo?_ Maybe if he wasn’t such a cowardly little shit, then he wouldn’t have flirted with and gotten so close to a woman married to his cousin. Maybe he wouldn’t have found himself in this situation where he couldn’t even explain to her why she wasn’t allowed to look at the photos he’d taken at her own wedding, and just _maybe_ —

“Oh, Jon, these are absolutely gorgeous!” Dany’s excited voice wafted in from his studio. _Oh, fuck shit._ “I’ve never seen these before!”

“Right—those!” Jon said, bolting out of the washroom and striding over to where Dany stood. His dread only intensified when he saw what she was looking at. Open on his laptop screen was the entirety of the album filled with photos Jon taken of Dany at the wedding—and Dany was scrolling through all them, her face nearly pressed up to the screen with excitement.

“I’m sorry,” she said guiltily, turning to him with a fading smile. “I just saw the folder, and thought—and I just had to look. I hope you’re not angry.”

Jon made a stifled sort of moan that must have passed for agreement, because Dany turned back to his computer as her smile lit up once more. “I didn’t know you did solo shots so well!” she enthused as if she’d found the Venus de Milo’s lost arms herself. “You’ve practically made me glow, Jon. These are incredible.”

 _Think._ Maybe these could convince Dany to forget about the photos she was looking for in the first place. “Don’t mention it,” Jon mumbled, feeling himself blush. “Beautiful pictures for a beautiful bride.”

“Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic,” she marvelled, forefinger scrolling through each shot on his laptop. “And where are the ones you’ve done of Robb?”

A fresh wave of panic overcame Jon. “Heh?” he said in a strangled voice.

“I mean, I understand these ones are of me, but could I see your shots of Robb too? I’m _sure_ he looks handsome in them, knowing you.” Dany shot Jon a sly wink, then turned to continue to click rapidly through his photo library. “You don’t mind if I just…”

Jon closed his eyes for a moment. It seemed like quite a bit of time passed then, but it must have been less than a minute. He could hear every slow thud of his heart in his chest, and unfortunately no answers came to him to make what he had to say any easier.

“A little help, Jon?” he heard Dany say. He opened his eyes and saw that she was cautiously browsing through the other wedding albums Jon had saved and labelled. “I can’t seem to find them.”

Jon found that he couldn’t breathe. _This is getting ridiculous._ “Look, the thing is, Dany… they’re not there.”

Dany turned to him. “What do you mean?”

He couldn’t do it. Faced by her clear, open expression, Jon knew he couldn’t have this confrontation today. He wasn’t ready—in all likelihood, he never _would_ be, but Jon had definitely not been prepared for this when he’d woken up this morning. “I mean, um, those photos aren’t finished either,” he lied wearily, wiping his sweaty palms across the back of his trousers.

“So, I’m assuming you saved them somewhere else?” Dany asked, keeping her tone light. The look on her face showed that she sensed something was up, and that she wasn’t going to put up with his redirection for much longer.

“Right, I did,” he replied firmly. When a few seconds passed by and he knew Dany wasn’t going to go anywhere without prompting, Jon stole a glance at his watch. “Oh, blimey, look at the time. Dany, I think you should go."

“Go?” she asked, immediately checking her mobile. “But I just got here…?”

“Right, I know you have, but I’m certain Cat’s waiting for you and,” Jon went on, crossing over her to open the door, “I was actually just in the middle of a project when you stopped by. Some art, some important art that I’ve got to finish.”

Dany stared at him, but got to her feet and obediently crossed the room to the flat entry. “Er… all right then. Are you feeling well, Jon?” she added, looking up at him as she reached for her coat. “You look a bit…”

“I’m fine,” Jon said too quickly, his grip on the doorknob unbreakable. “Trust me, I am. I’ll be there at the party bright and early tonight.”

Dany stepped out into the corridor, knitting her eyebrows together as she went. “I wasn’t talking about—”

He shut the door. A split second later, Jon realised what he had done and swore, opening it again.

“Fuck! I’m so sorry, Dany, I didn’t mean to do th—it’s just, you’ve really got to go.”

“Um… all right then,” Dany said slowly, giving him a confused smile. She did up the last button on her coat and stared up at him. “I’ll see you tonight, Jon.”

“Er, yeah. Yeah, see you!” he said, managing to keep his voice steady. This time he waited until she had gone several steps down the corridor before closing and locking the door. Then Jon turned around, let out a very painful deep breath, and stopped short. The first thing he saw was his open laptop, the majority of the contents of his wedding album edits still in full desktop view like an accusing reminder of all of his lies.

It took everything Jon had not to speed dial Sam and scream.

 

 

**Margaery – 4 PM**

“Margaery, that’s slutty,” Loras told her.

She whirled around. “Oh, shut up, you.”

Her older brother grinned back at her, eyes twinkling. “I’m only taking the piss! You look amazing, you know you do.”

Margaery and her brother were getting ready for the evening together in Margaery’s bedroom. She bent critically over her vanity mirror, one knee on the chair, pushing her hair back from her face. Margaery planned to wear her hair in loose waves with a jewelled band round her forehead, and had already applied careful streaks of MAC emerald-coloured liquid eyeliner to her eyes. It was a bit over-the-top, true, but wasn’t that what New Year’s was all about? Spread out across the jewellery tray before her were several costume pieces interspersed with the real thing, all ridiculously oversized in various shades of gold and green. Margaery had always liked to be rather Elizabeth Taylor about her accessories—the bigger, the better.

After careful consideration, she was trying on a black Alice + Olivia dress with an open back and a bodice made of interlaced swathes of silk. She stepped carefully over to the full-length mirror, clicking away in her high-heeled Mary Janes patterned with pale pink roses and laced up with black satin ribbon.

“I don’t know about this one,” she said pensively, gazing into the gilt-framed mirror that leaned against her bedroom wall. The frame had once hung round a portrait of one of Mummy’s dead ancestors, but the portrait had been reframed and Margaery had requisitioned it for her mirror. Fairy lights were now wrapped around the frame to give it a magical, Alice-in-Wonderland sort of feeling. She turned around, looking over her shoulder to inspect her reflection. “Maybe I ought to go with something a bit more—festive?”

“I don’t like the black,” Loras agreed, adjusting his cufflinks. “You might try something more colourful.”

Margaery always loved getting ready for parties, and whenever she was with Loras, getting ready was always as much fun as the party itself. Now they were blasting one of Willas’ remixes of ‘Fancy’ and Margaery could feel the familiar twist of pre-party nerves and excitement in her stomach—but it was coupled with an unusual sadness. She watched as Loras leaned over the side of the bed, fixing one of his diamond-studded black velvet court shoes. He was wearing a slim-cut Henry Holland suit and looked like he might’ve just stepped out of the pages of British Vogue.

“You’re right. I don’t like the black, either.” She went over to her brother. “Unzip me?” Loras dutifully obeyed, and Margaery stepped out of the party dress and carefully hung it on her clothing rack, standing there in nothing but her mint green lace knickers. She moved back in front of the mirror and carefully inspected herself, putting one hand on her hip.

 _Not bad._ Not bad at all, really. But that didn’t change the fact that come midnight, she would be without one very special someone to kiss.

She and Loras had decided to be each other’s New Year’s kisses this year, seeing as neither of their crushes would be coming to their party. Once that would have made Margaery happy; it was exactly the right amount of scandalous and the perfect quotient of glamorous. But today she couldn’t help but feel vaguely let down. Loras had been quiet all day, even though he was trying to keep up a good front, and she could tell that he was also sad.

Margaery herself was much more upset than she’d expected about the fact that she would be alone this New Year’s Eve, with no best friend/possible girlfriend in sight. But if nothing else, Tyrells knew how to put on their party faces—that was what Margaery kept telling herself. She really needed to sort herself out, because feeling this dissatisfied when there was a party to be had simply wouldn’t _do_.

There was a knock at the door, and both she and Loras looked up in surprise. “Wait!” Margaery called, reaching for her celadon silk dressing gown, and tied the sash around her waist. “All right, come in.”

Their grandmother popped her distinguished head round the door, casting a critical glance around the room. “Why so glum?” she asked loudly, without preamble.

Margaery smiled, feeling her head pounding a little bit. “Who’s glum, Grandmother?”

“Oh, don’t even try that voice on me, Margaery,” Olenna chided, pushing open the door and standing imperiously in the entryway. “I can tell you’re both long-faced and moping. What’s the matter?”

Loras sighed heavily and answered for both of them. “Neither of the people we fancy are coming to the party tonight.”

“Oh, I see. What a terrible tragedy.”

Loras looked actually miserable; he didn’t even try to hide it. “Thanks a lot, Grandmother.”

Their grandmother softened perceptibly. “Well, now. If it isn’t just my luck,” she said wryly, “to have two grandchildren gayer than Paris.” She folded her arms across her cream-coloured Valentino blazer before crossing the room to settle onto the stool of Margaery’s vanity table. Looking up at her grandchildren from her new seat as if it were a throne, Olenna arched one perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

“So, the Prime Minister and Ned Stark’s daughter? My, we aim high, don’t we?”

“Well, you did raise us to have expensive taste,” Margaery said, smiling somewhat in her faint attempt at humour. Loras, now seated on the bed, hugged one of her pink Union Jack satin pillows to his chest with a wan nod of agreement.

Olenna accepted this. “Fair enough. And yet you both look so… long in the face. Come now, you’re Tyrells, not Freys. Enough with the gloomy faces.”

Margaery flicked a look at Loras, and they both forced a smile at the same time.

“That’s a terrible attempt, but the effort is appreciated. Anyhow, I think I’ve got just the right cure for my sad, homosexual grandchildren.” Their grandmother snapped her fingers and the butler, Mullendore, appeared in the doorway bearing a tray of fine scotch and three glasses.

“The good stuff?” Loras looked up, eyes twinkling. “You _do_ love us, Grandmother.”

“No use moping,” their grandmother said briskly, waving Mullendore over to set the tray down on Margaery’s vanity table. “That’s all. You may go,” she crisply told him, and he nodded and bowed hastily before backing out of the room.

“Now,” Olenna said, once she had poured the scotch and pressed a glass into both Margaery and Loras’s hands, “there are enough gold and white balloons down there to fill the entire Covent Garden. The caterers have come and gone, I don’t need to say that the florists have been here all morning, and everything is set up to perfection. Your party is going to be written up in all the papers as the party of the year, the one not to be missed.”

“Since when do you care about that?” Margaery said, taking a sip of her scotch, amused in spite of herself.

“Me? Oh, I don’t give a tinker’s damn about the publicity for this party of yours, my dear. But I know that the two of you _do_. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“It’s true,” Loras agreed, looking somewhat cheered as he reclined against the ivory silk headboard of Margaery’s bed. Then he sighed. “God, if only we weren’t going to be pathetically alone!”

Olenna raised an eyebrow, apparently unimpressed by the self-pity in Loras’s voice. Just then Margaery’s cat Queen Marina wandered over and rubbed around her ankles. Bracing herself, the kitty tried to make a jump for Olenna’s lap, but Olenna pushed her away with a shudder. “Down! Good heavens. Thank goodness for lint brushes.”

“Be nice, Grandmother.” Margaery made a clicking sound with her tongue, and her kitty scurried over to her. She knelt down and scratched behind Marina’s ears, nursing her glass of scotch in the other hand.

“I’m being perfectly nice. I just don’t care for cat hair all over my suit.” Olenna paused, looking back and forth between them, and her voice warmed just slightly. “I do sympathise with the two of you about all this love business. I imagine it would be harder to not be heterosexual, and I _am_ sorry.”

“That means a lot, Grandmother, even if you don’t exactly know how it is.” Loras sighed. “Thank you.”

“Well, how do you know I haven’t tried it?” Olenna challenged, eyes lit with amusement. She paused, wearing the arch look that meant she was about to say something _really_ bad. “I may be ancient, but that only means I’ve lived a lot longer than you have. You don’t know all I’ve gotten up to in my time.”

“Grandmother!” Margaery exclaimed, not even trying to hold back her laughter. “I’m scandalised!”

“What?” Olenna took a long drink of scotch and tapped her manicured nails against the glass. “Everyone’s done it, you know, only in my day you just didn’t talk about it. Even Tywin Lannister confessed to me once that he’d tried it a few times at school. You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but those Eton schoolboys were _notorious_. They used to scare us girls stiff with stories of what those boys got up to unattended.” She raised her eyebrows, tilting her head suggestively. “Very naughty stuff, indeed.”

Loras’s mouth had dropped open in delighted shock. Margaery couldn’t stop laughing, as cheered up as her grandmother had doubtless intended her to be. “All right, Grandmother. If you say so.” She set down her glass of scotch and stood up.

Her grandmother’s appearance had bolstered her. Margaery put her shoulders back, and stood up straight. She was a Tyrell, and she could soldier on perfectly well, just as her grandmother had reminded her to.

Keeping her chin firmly up, Margaery went over to her dressing rack and held up two more dresses on their hangers. It wasn’t as if this was a life-or-death situation, after all: she simply had to attend a party and keep appearances up. “All right, Grandmother, I need your opinion.” She took a deep breath. “Which of these dresses do you prefer?”

 

 

**Catelyn – 5 PM**

Something was going on with Sansa. Catelyn was kept busy running around the house, setting up for the party, but had still noticed that Sansa had been walking around as if in a daze for the past few hours. It was all very strange.

The entire family had been preparing for the party since noon. Jon and Robb were moving tables, Ned was stringing up fairy lights outside, and Arya and that boy friend (boyfriend?) of hers were erecting the stage for the musicians. Catelyn’s great-uncle Brynden had arrived at noon, full of good cheer and loaded down with belated holiday presents, and was busy helping Ned. Catelyn’s brother and pretty young wife had come in around three o’clock, and were sleeping off the effects of travel in their bedroom (which was _such_ typical Edmure). Even Lysa was making herself useful arranging the catering trays, even if she did smell as if she’d taken a bit too much sherry.

“Sansa, dear,” Catelyn said for the fourth time, passing her eldest daughter where Sansa leaned against the wall, texting, “could you please help me set up the sideboard?”

Sansa looked up quickly. “Oh yeah, sure, Mum.” She went off in the direction of the dining room, looking unsure of what exactly she was supposed to be doing.

“Just help Dany!” Cat called after her. Sighing, she shook her head and went briskly into Winterfell’s main room, the architectural centre of the house. Split-level with the height of two entire floors, this room made it clear that Winterfell was an ancestral home that dated back to the Middle Ages. Ned had painstakingly refurbished it with his brother Benjen after their parents and eldest brother had died in a freak accident in the 1980s. It was the brothers’ way of coping, it seemed, or restoring some sense of family legacy. When they’d finished Benjen had gone up to work in Yorkshire, and Catelyn and Ned had moved in soon after they married.

Now Winterfell’s main room looked beautiful, a fire burning merrily away in the hearth. Their giant Christmas tree still dominated its corner, and sparkling lights had been strung all over the ceiling. Gendry was currently on his back erecting the stage as Arya knelt next to him, handing him tools and barraging him with advice.

“I don’t think it should go there! A little higher!” she commanded, as Gendry rolled his eyes and continued on exactly as he was.

Then Sansa appeared at the far end of the room, brow furrowed as she stared at her mobile phone. She started crossing the floor, not looking up to see where she was going. “Sansa!” Catelyn said sharply, and Sansa startled and looked up. “Why aren’t you helping Dany?”

“Oh—right—sorry Mum,” Sansa said weakly, and turned around to go back the way she’d come. Catelyn frowned, watching her disappear back into the dining room.

Something was definitely going on with Catelyn’s eldest daughter. She was certain of it.

 

 

**Stannis – 7:30 PM**

Shireen was acting strange. “Rickon is going to be at the party,” she told her father, fixing her hair in front of the entryway mirror with short staccato movements of her hands. She was unusually fidgety, and it struck Stannis that she must be feeling nervous.

“You look beautiful, Shireen,” Stannis told her formally, meaning it. Shireen was wearing a new navy blue velvet party dress that Melisandre had helped him pick out, and had brushed her hair until it was shining and put it back in an Alice band. She looked like a little girl from a storybook.

His daughter continued to gaze at her reflection and fuss with her hair. She didn’t seem reassured, so Stannis knelt to Shireen’s level and put both gloved hands on her cheeks, speaking to her calmly. “Shireen, you look lovely, and I think that Rickon will be very happy to see you. All right?”

She looked him in the eyes and smiled with relief. “Thanks, Daddy.” Just then then the doorbell rang and, clearing his throat, Stannis stood to answer it.

Davos stood outside their door, looking very handsome in a long grey tartan coat and a red scarf wrapped smartly round his neck. When he smiled at Stannis, Stannis had a sudden pang of understanding for how Shireen must feel. He rather wished he had someone to pat his cheek and tell him how lovely he looked, too.

“Happy New Year’s,” Davos said, smiling at him with a warm look in his eyes.

“Hello,” said Stannis, his heart still pounding just a bit. He smiled back very slightly, feeling inexplicably nervous at the effort it cost him. “How are you?”

“Wonderful, Stannis. Never better.” Davos gave him another smile, and a short nod. “Where’s the little princess, then?”

Shireen shot out from behind Stannis and wrapped her hands around Davos’ waist. “Davos!”

“Hello, lassie.” Davos put his arms around Shireen’s shoulders. “Happy New Year’s Eve, eh? And my goodness, don’t you look nice?”

Shireen stepped back anxiously. “D’you really think so? Daddy said I did—only I’m so nervous to see Rickon, I don’t know!”

“Well, now,” Davos said slowly, with a long look at Stannis, “don’t you know that your Daddy is always right?”

Stannis raised one prim eyebrow, but Shireen nodded without a trace of irony. “Yes, I know he is.” Davos let out a bark of laughter, and reached out to clap Stannis on the shoulder. “Someone’s a great dad, you know that?”

Stannis let out an embarrassed noise. “Well. I.”

Davos just chuckled. “Car’s in front,” he added. Stannis had given his usual driver the night off; Davos had offered to give them a lift, stopping by on his way from his family’s home in Maida Vale.

“Right then, I suppose we should be off,” Stannis said formally. “Are you ready, Shireen?” He stepped back into the kitchen to retrieve his carrier bag of wine, and when he returned to the entry hall, Shireen had already gone out. Davos was standing before the door, holding it slightly ajar as he waited for Stannis.

Davos looked at him warmly as he approached and Stannis cleared his throat, trying to calm down. “Thank you for the lift, Davos. And… for coming.”

“Oh, of course.” Davos smiled easily, and his expression brooked any more awkward attempts at gratitude. He waved Stannis past him. “After you, mate.”

Stannis wasn’t sure exactly how it happened. But as Stannis passed the other man, their gloved hands brushed just slightly… and although it wasn’t all that cold on the snowy city street, Stannis shivered.

 

 

**Tyrion – 8:30 PM**

The past few days had passed in a distractingly pleasant blur. Tyrion had seen Shae every day as she came over to tidy up, read his books, and teach him how to make simple French dishes. It was a holiday that he hadn’t wanted to end—but none of his wishes could change the fact that his ticket home was booked for the night of New Year’s Eve, and that was tonight.

After an early dinner they’d prepared together, cooking and washing up after, they closed up Tyrion’s rental house. Then Tyrion drove Shae home, going slowly on the snowy back roads. After dropping her home, he would be driving directly to the tiny French airport to fly back to Britain.

“Well,” Tyrion said slowly once they had arrived, getting out of the car and opening the door for Shae, “I suppose this is goodbye.”

Shae stood and closed the door of the car behind her, taking a few tentative steps forward in the snow. “I suppose so,” she replied, her French accent sounding very strong.

A gust of wind ruffled his hair. It was very cold, but Tyrion hardly noticed. “I just wanted to thank you,” he said, a bit awkwardly. “For… well, for all of it. I know I can’t have been much fun over the past week. I was in a real state and I think—I think that if you hadn’t taken pity on me, I probably would have given myself a case of alcohol poisoning.” He forced a laugh. “Plenty of holiday spirit, that.”

Shae didn’t say anything. Suddenly made quite aware of his nerves, Tyrion cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot. “So, Shae, thank you for spending the holiday with me. It means a lot—possibly the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me, really.”

Shae didn’t say anything. “Do you remember,” she said finally, “what I told you on Christmas Eve?”

“Er…” They’d had so many conversations since then; he couldn’t place just the one.

“I told you,” she said, with that flash of a wry smile, “not to always sound so grateful.”

Oh—now Tyrion remembered. “Because… it’s unattractive,” he finished, wincing slightly. “Right. Was I…”

Shae’s face creased into a sharp little smile. “Yes. You are being a bit _too_ grateful.” Her face softened slightly, and she paused before going on. “Tyrion, I would not have spent my time with you if I did not enjoy your company.”

Tyrion felt something stirring inside him. “Shae, I—”

Suddenly Shae bent down and kissed him full on the mouth, cupping his face in her hands. He felt heat rising in his chest. _Was that what I was going to do? Maybe. I don’t know._ He’d rather accepted that Shae was braver and bolder than he was, in every way. _She smells so good_ , he thought, and he didn’t want to let go.

But Shae pulled away and stared at him with unreadable dark eyes. “Have a safe flight,” she said enigmatically.

Tyrion was slightly stunned. “Er—thank you,” he managed.

“Happy New Year’s,” Shae added. Then she wrapped her coat around herself, heading away into the night and up the steps of her darkened home.

Numbly, Tyrion waved once, and then got in his car. He drove away glancing repeatedly in the rear-view mirror, but could hardly see Shae in the darkness. Soon he had left the narrow back lane that led to her house, and had emerged onto the speedway leading into the airport 

He had the strangest feeling that, by leaving, he was doing the wrong thing.

 

 

**Sansa – 9:15 PM**

Sansa didn’t know what to do. The first few guests had started to arrive, and while now there were only a handful of people from the village, Sansa knew from experience that the New Year’s party would soon be well underway. Within an hour Winterfell would be packed with people and she wouldn’t have a chance to speak to her parents alone, much less secure their permission to leave.

She’d been so anxious that she hadn’t spared the time to get dressed, only finishing her makeup before springing up and going downstairs. Her party dress, tights, and heels remained laid out on her bed upstairs, waiting to be donned. For nearly half an hour Sansa had trailed her parents from room to room, but she still hadn’t mustered the nerve to actually go up and speak to them.

Arya materialised at her elbow, breaking away from where she’d been standing with Gendry and their great-great-uncle Brynden, who was even taller than Gendry and a good deal craggier. “Did you really swim naked across the English Channel?” Gendry was saying eagerly. “’Cos Arya said you did, and if it’s true then mad props, mate, for serious!”

“Come on, Sansa,” Arya muttered, glancing up at her. “Time’s of the essence, here.”

“I know,” Sansa said desperately, turning to her little sister. “I just—I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Sansa,” Arya said, patiently, “think about why you’re doing this. _Margaery_. You want to be with her. This is very important.” She had taken Sansa by the elbow, and without Sansa’s noticing had steered her right into the kitchen where both of their parents stood chatting warmly with the village mayor Jory Cassel. “Don’t you want to be with her tonight? Don’t you?”

“Yes…”

“You can _do_ it,” Arya hissed, and gave Sansa a launching push across the room before Sansa was entirely ready to be launched. _Oh, god._ She slowly crossed the kitchen, feeling physically cold with nervousness.

“Hello, Jory,” Sansa said as she approached, smiling politely at the mayor. She turned to her parents. “Um, Mum? Dad? Could I speak to you for a moment?”

Catelyn and Ned looked at her, and then at one another. “All right, dear,” said Ned curiously. “What is it?”

“Just… something,” Sansa said evasively. “It’s, er, sort of important.” They were all still looking at her, waiting. _Oh_. She glanced around. “In here please?” she said, gesturing toward the dining room door.

Her parents exchanged looks. “Sorry, mate,” Ned said, clapping Jory on the shoulder, “I’ll see you in a bit, yeah?”

Sansa’s parents followed her into the dining room, which was currently empty save the contents of the table-groaning buffet spread. Mum and Dad sat down and looked at her expectantly, but Arya (who had trailed them in) remained standing behind them. She gazed at Sansa encouragingly.

“Okay,” Sansa said, taking a deep breath. “Here’s the thing.” Oh, god, this was going to be harder than it she’d expected. She clasped both hands in front of her, trying to stop them from trembling.

“You see, there’s this party tonight,” she began hesitantly, and her parents immediately furrowed their brows and looked at each other. _Oh no—that’s not good._ Why did her parents have to be so stuck in their ways? They hadn’t even finished hearing what Sansa had to say and they were already frowning. “It’s… Well, it’s my friend Margaery’s party, and it’s sort of important to me.”

She looked helplessly at Arya, who widened her eyes expectantly and mouthed, _Go on!_

“So I would really like to go,” Sansa finished, feeling hesitant. “To Margaery’s party. I know it’s a family tradition for all of us to spend New Year’s Eve here at Winterfell, but…”

Her mum spoke up sternly. “That’s right, Sansa. You know we always celebrate with the whole family at Winterfell.”

Jon poked his head around the corner, looking harried. “Ned, I can’t find the—”

“Shh!” Arya hissed at him, and beckoned him in. Looking confused, Jon came in awkwardly and took an empty chair. Sansa coloured. Fantastic, an audience was exactly what she needed. She took a deep breath and tried to focus.

“Mum, I _know_ that, and our tradition has always been really special to me.” Sansa looked imploringly at her parents. “Believe me, I wouldn’t be asking for your permission to go if this other party weren’t important.”

Catelyn tipped her head, looking patient. “But Sansa darling, I don’t understand. You can see your friend any other time of year, but New Year’s is for family. It always has been.”

Sansa opened her mouth to answer but froze as she saw Robb appear in the doorway, holding hands with Dany. “Hey, Jon,” her older brother said loudly, “where’d you—oh, _hello_ , everyone! We didn’t know that this was where the party was!”

“No, no, it’s not—” Sansa said desperately, but Arya nodded vehemently and said, “Sansa’s making a very important announcement.” Smiling, Robb and Dany came in and sat down. Sansa shot Arya a death glare, but Sansa’s little sister only beamed and gave Sansa a double thumbs-up in encouragement.

 _Bloody fantastic_. Sansa summoned all her courage, thought of Margaery, and managed to go on. “Mum, it’s just that—this is my friend’s party. And I would really like to go.”

Just then Gendry appeared round the corner. Was this some sort of sick joke?! Where were these people coming from? “Hey, Arya—” he called, and stopped. “Oh, there you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” Arya made a throat-cutting motion and beckoned him into the room; looking confused, Gendry walked in and took a seat next to Arya.

Sansa looked at her mum and dad and reminded herself that their permission was all that mattered. She could see that her dad looked stern, and a bit hurt. _Wonderful_ , she thought, practically squirming in discomfort, _now I’m going to get the hurt-and-confused lecture from_ both _parents_. “Sansa,” her dad began in his deliberate politician’s way, “this is our family tradition. I understand that it might be more exciting for you to go to your friend’s party, but we would all be so disappointed if you left. I thought you understand that.”

 _Really?! Now I’m not understanding?_ “No, Dad, I _do_ understand!” Sansa exclaimed, genuinely frustrated. “And I don’t want to disappoint anyone, you’ve got to know that.” _Oh God, this is hopeless._ “This party tonight is just… It’s really important to me. It’s important because I think it could turn out to be something special.”

Sansa took a very deep breath, and then she went for it. “Look, the thing is that my friend, Margaery, who’s hosting this party—she’s not _only_ my friend. I mean—I’m sort of hoping that she might end up being… more. More than just my friend.”

Everyone was gazing at her blankly.

“ _More_ than a friend,” she repeated, feeling herself blushing hard. She waved her arms around wildly, trying to illustrate the point. “ _More!_ ”

Her family was looking very blank. Were they really going to make her spell this out? _As if this weren’t already difficult enough!_ Desperately, Sansa searched the room for an example. “Look—Robb! How did you feel when you first started liking Dany?”

Everyone turned to look at her eldest brother, and Sansa breathed a sigh of relief. This would not only help her explain things, it also gave her time to calm the nerves she knew would come bursting forth again as soon as she entered the doors of the Tyrell party. _If_ she made it that far.

“Everything suddenly changed,” Robb said, turning around to face Dany, whose face broke into the sweetest smile. “All of a sudden, I felt different around her. I couldn’t stop thinking of the littlest things she did, small things didn’t matter to anyone but me.” Robb grinned a bit wolfishly and took Dany’s hand in his. “I just— _knew_. I knew that she was the one.”

“YES!” Sansa exclaimed, nearly jumping up and down in her excitement. “That’s it, that’s exactly it! That’s—” She stopped dead as everyone turned back to stare at her, an entire room’s worth of realisation beginning dawn on their faces.

Her dad looked very, very serious, and Sansa’s stomach did a flip of nervousness as she watched him. “Sansa.” He seemed to be struggling for words. “Are you saying that you feel for this girl… what Robb feels for Dany? Is that what you’re trying to tell us?”

Sansa took a deep breath. Somehow in the interim, her uncle Brynden had also joined the pack of people in her audience, as well as Robert Baratheon and Jory Cassel. Wonderful. The entire village was going to witness her coming out; it was probably going to be on the local news the next morning. Fine. Sansa didn’t care. “Yes, Dad. That’s what I’m saying.” She put both hands on her hips almost defiantly, heart pounding madly in her chest. “So this is not just about me wanting to go to some stupid party. It’s about wanting to be with Margaery on New Year’s Eve.”

There were a few disbelieving noises in the room. “Wait, who’s Margaery, then?” Gendry said slowly, and Arya vehemently shushed him. Broken out of his Dany-induced reverie, Robb’s mouth dropped open. “Wait, so you mean that…”

All right, Sansa had had it with this shocked and amazed business. It was time to spell things out, if that’s what it took for people to believe her. She burst out, “Yes! I mean, I _really_ like her, I think she likes me too, and I _really_ want to be her New Year’s kiss!”

She stopped. It was if a small bomb had gone off in the room. Her entire family and several of the party guests were staring at her in open-mouthed silence—all except for Arya, whose face had lit up in an enormous grin.

Sansa stared back at them, heart hammering in her chest. The adrenaline of desperation had started to wear off slightly, and suddenly she felt unconscionably nervous. _Please don’t be mad, please don’t freak out…_ “Please,” she added belatedly, mustering a pitiful smile that was almost killed by her writhing nerves.

Then Jon, too, started smiling. As if in a chain reaction, Robb’s face next to him broke into a slightly shocked but easy grin, and then Dany started smiling too. Lastly, most importantly, her parents began to lose their expressions of shock. Her mum’s face lit up with love and understanding… and though her dad still looked slightly stunned, even he was smiling a bit too.

Sansa’s mum sat up, her blue eyes glowing with something that looked almost like tears. “Well, Sansa,” she said, in the way that meant that she understood, she _really_ did, and suddenly Sansa knew that everything was going to be okay. 

“If that’s how you feel…” Sansa’s mum went on slowly, and reached over to squeeze her dad’s hand. “Then you really do have to go, darling, don’t you?”

 

 

**Brienne – 9:30 PM**

They met at a different place this time, the hotel bar of the Mayfair Hotel. Now _this_ was a place Brienne had always imagined Lannister would patronise—a place that was simultaneously expensive, beautiful, and annoyingly posh. As she entered the large room she saw that he was waiting for her at the bar wearing a dark blue tie with his slim-cut grey suit, and looked impossibly handsome in the low lighting. Not that it mattered to her, of course.

Brienne herself had actually dressed for the occasion, wearing a grey knit dress with a low-cut back and long sleeves paired with dark hose and dangerously sharp heels. The dress clung in all the right places, giving the illusion of curves, and the shoes made her so tall that they were formidable and best saved for special occasions—like meeting a wily co-worker whose intentions with her were wholly unclear.

Jaime gave her an once-over (such an _ass_ ) as she removed her jacket and unwound her scarf. “You look good, wench,” he said lightly, and took a sip of his drink.

Brienne scowled at him. “For once in your life, could you stop using those irritating, derogatory terms? It’s not charming, I’ll have you know.”

“I beg your pardon,” Jaime said, drawing the words out into a drawl. Then he smiled at her, in the more relaxed way that let her know he was being serious. “Let me buy you a drink to apologise.”

Brienne rolled her eyes but nodded, settling herself gingerly onto the barstool. “I have to say that this seems more like your type of place than that other pub.”

Jaime looked at her. “Now, why do you have to do that?”

“What?”

“ _Judge_ me.” Jaime gestured to the barman. “A house special, for the lady,” he ordered calmly.

Brienne frowned. “I was only making an observation.”

“Right, an observation full of _judgment_. We’re coworkers, Tarth. There’s nothing untoward about going out for a companionable pint, and you don’t have to come in looking like you suspect foul play.”

“I don’t think that this is the kind of place that serves pints,” Brienne said a bit cuttingly, eying the barman in his well-cut suit.

Jaime shrugged. “So? Later we can find a better place, that does.”

“For you, ma’am,” said the barman, returning with a drink that most definitely was not a pint. Brienne eyed at it sceptically. “What is that?”

“A mojito,” said the barman, with a little nod. Brienne took a sip. It wasn’t bad, but she had a feeling she was going to need something a lot stronger to get through this night. Jaime seemed to be drinking vodka tonics, or possibly just vodka on the rocks. “One of those, please,” Brienne said to the barman, and he obliged. _Ah. Much better._

“Do you come here often?” she asked, after taking a few sips. She felt awkward. It was as if they had wiped the slate clean and started over again. Last night Jaime had seemed to have the grim determination to get plastered, and they’d done more drinking then talking. After that, all the talking they’d done had been the ridiculous sort that people do when they’re absolutely pissed. Brienne couldn’t remember the half of what she’d said… nor, after that embarrassing text message exchange this morning, did she particularly want to.

Jaime shrugged. “Not really. Nice ambiance, though. I met a student here once.”

She couldn’t keep the condescension from her voice. “Oh."

He turned in his chair, looking mock-affronted. “What, you think I’m the type of lecturer to sleep with my students?”

“I’m not inferring anything about what you do in your spare time, Lannister,” Brienne replied, keeping her voice icy cool.

Jaime gazed at her. “You really don’t think too much of me, do you, Tarth?”

Brienne, caught off-guard, had to take a few sips of her drink before she could answer. “What sort of question is that?”

“It’s just a question. You should answer it.”

She didn’t say anything.

“So what was it, wench?” Jaime pushed on, gazing at her. “Why did you hate me on sight?”

Brienne was suddenly feeling her two drinks. “I—what?”

“You heard me. You disliked me from the moment you saw me. Our first faculty meeting together, as soon as you got that scared lamb-to-the-slaughter look off your face, you were at my throat, and I simply want to know _why_.” Jaime’s voice lightened incrementally. “Was it because of my striking good looks? My dashing airs? Why did you single me out as your natural enemy? Don’t be shy. I want to know.”

She paused. “I—” She may as well tell him the truth. “I suppose so. You just… you just looked like someone whose life had always been easy for him.” Brienne shrugged. “And people like you have never been kind to me.”

Jaime took it in. He downed the rest of his vodka tonic, and then nodded slowly. “I see. So I’m guessing, Tarth, that _your_ life hasn’t been too easy. Big woman, no family connections.”

She glowered at him, but relaxed when she realised he was only trying to make an observation. “Yeah. That’s it. I was a scholarship student.”

“So,” said Jaime, “was I.”

Brienne stared at him, incredulous. “Lannister, your family is one of the richest in Britain.”

“My old man cut me off,” Jaime said easily. “Well, so to speak. He wasn’t about to bankroll my entering a career that wasn’t related to Lannister Industries. We didn’t speak for a year after I entered grad school.” He paused, heaving a sharp little laugh. “I’m not so impressive, you see.”

Brienne’s chest swelled, and she suddenly felt indignant. Even if she wasn’t too fond of the man himself, he was a senior lecturer at Queenscrown College, and that _meant_ something. After all, it was the pinnacle of all her dreams and desires.

“That’s ridiculous, Lannister. Your students love you. You introduce them to classic works of literature. And—well, you haven’t written any papers yet to contribute to the canon of research, but I’m sure that one day you will, and those will be catalogued and read forever.” She fixed him with her sternest, most Catelyn-esque look. “So you’ve got no grounds to say that you’re not much of a man.”

“Some nice criteria you’ve got there,” Jaime scoffed, flagging down the barman for another drink. But he looked genuinely touched, if only for a moment.

“So, you didn’t have any plans for tonight?” she asked after a few moments of almost companionable silence, feeling just the slightest bit more warmth toward him.

“No,” he said grimly. “Could’ve been celebrating with my family, I suppose, but I’m not close to any them. Well—I’m close to my brother, but he’s not speaking to me right now. It’s a long story.” Jaime heaved a sigh and then, without being prompted, added, “I used to be close with my sister, but… we’re not, any more.” He looked genuinely sad when he said it.

“I’m sorry,” Brienne said, meaning it. At least she was close to her own father; they were all the other person had left.

“Well, I’m not,” he said shortly, tipping back his drink and signalling the barman for another. “Or maybe I am, I don’t know. I genuinely don’t know.”

“You know,” Jaime said slowly after they’d had a few more drinks, leaning on the bar with his head propped on his hand, “contrary to what you might think, I’ve never slept with a student. In fact, I’ve only ever slept with one woman in my life.”

It took all Brienne’s self-restraint not to make a face. _What kind of man tells that to a coworker?_ “I didn’t really need to know that,” she muttered.

“Does that surprise you?” Jaime insisted, looking at her, and she was reminded by his dogged insistence that first time they’d gone for a pint, when he’d revealed his dyslexia and seemed to almost quiz her for her reaction. Why did he seem to need to use her as an emotional metre stick, gauging her reactions to revelations about his innermost flaws and secrets? She fixed him with a flat look. Whatever his reasons, she could tell him the truth.

“Yes,” she said. “It does.”

He nodded, seeming satisfied. “Yes. I thought it would. I’m almost surprised myself.”

Brienne was curious in spite of herself. “Are you married, then?” She’d never noticed a wedding ring, but then again, it was not as if she’d ever cared to look.

“No,” he said vehemently. She took the opportunity to check his hand. No ring.

“ _Were_ you married?”

“No.” He sounded sadder, now. “No, we were never married. She said it wasn’t possible for the two of us.”

This was getting too maudlin even for her. “So is that partly the reason why you’re moping around like an arsed fool?”

Jaime jerked his head up, eyes glittering, and then he relaxed, grinning wolfishly. “Yes. Yes, it is.” He reached out a finger and poked her in the chest. His cheeks were slightly red, and she could smell the vodka on his breath. “I like you, Tarth. I do. You may not like me, but I like you.”

“Thank you. I can rest easy, knowing that.” _And you just poked me in the tit, you great drunken fool._

Jaime set down his drink with a clank and stood up, wobbling against the barstool. “You know what, this is pathetic. We can’t just sit around this dive all night with this bunch of losers. We deserve to go to a real party and _celebrate_.”

Brienne smiled, wincing, at the barman. “He’s drunk. No offense.”

Turning back to Jaime, she rolled her eyes. “Nice thought, genius, but it’s already late and traffic anywhere is going to be absolutely horrendous.”

“Oh, we don’t have to worry about that.” Jaime grinned, and he really did look dashing when he did it. “I’ll call a car.”

 

 

**Tyrion – 9:45 PM**

Tyrion had made it to the airport and was standing at the counter of the hired car company when he realised he was doing the wrong thing. Shae’s face had flashed before him the entire drive to the airport—the expression in her dark eyes, and that inscrutable look she’d given him after they’d kissed.

He wasn’t sure what that look in Shae’s eyes had meant, but standing there in the tiny Marseilles airport, Tyrion suddenly knew that he wasn’t ready to leave France quite yet.

Now he just had to sort out the business end of things. Despite having taken three years of French in high school, Tyrion could barely communicate what he needed to say. “Um—one more day! _Une jour—plus!_ ” The Frenchman behind the counter stared at him in mild confusion. Oh, bother it.

“I’m terribly sorry—I don’t speak French—I just have to go, here you are, enjoy—” Tyrion threw a wad of cash onto the counter and bolted back outside, where his hired car was still sitting at the kerb. With a feeling of unbridled nervous excitement rising in his chest, he jumped into the car, turned the key, and peeled away at top speed.

 

 

**Renly – 10:00 PM**

His personal assistant appeared in the doorway, bearing an armful of papers and a satchel. “From the Treasury, sir. And I’ve also got a sampling of holiday cards for you. Enjoy them.”

Renly lifted his head, forcing a bright smile. “Ah, thank you, Sarah. Happy New Year’s.”

Despite his many gala invitations, Renly had elected to stay home on New Year’s Eve. He hadn’t officially RSVP’d to any event, but all it would take was a quick call from his scheduler and he would be welcomed at any party with open arms. Still, he felt the opposite of festive, and pretending New Year’s cheer to the general public was the last thing he wanted to be doing. He’d been moping for an entire fortnight now, yet unwilling to acknowledge to himself exactly why.

Now he skimmed over the Treasury briefings, idly watching television as he did; all the channels seemed to be playing his brother’s music video on repeat, which was a bit annoying. Finally, unable to do any more work, Renly rifled through his mail despondently, peering at card after generic card. Lo and behold, something caught his eye.

It was a green and gold envelope, stunning in its decoration. He opened it to see a plain white card inside, reading ‘Season’s Greetings.’ A small silver party invitation fell out, and Renly turned it over. But then the neat cursive writing inside the card itself caught his eye—he saw a too-familiar name and suddenly couldn’t stop his heart from pounding in his chest. Renly picked up the card and held it close, reading quickly.

_‘Dear sir, this is Loras. I have to say that I’m terribly sorry about what happened the last time I saw you. I promise that absolutely nothing happened between that man and me. I don’t know him, and what you witnessed was nothing more than a mix-up. I am not, in any way, his. The truth is, if I were to be anyone’s, I would be yours._

_‘Anyhow, I mentioned my family’s party before, but was never able to give you an invitation. Please find one enclosed. I know that things may have changed for us, but working for you has been a true pleasure. It would mean so much if you could come tonight. Yours, Loras.’_

Renly put his head in his hands and breathed out slowly. For a long moment, he concentrated on nothing but his breathing.

Then he sat up, grabbed for the card again, and reread the one line that stuck in his head like an echo. ‘If I were to be anyone’s, I would be yours.’

_If I were to be anyone’s, I would be yours._

“And what the hell am I going to do about this?” he burst out to the empty room, a swell of unnameable emotion rising in his chest.

 

 

**Catelyn – 10:15 PM**

“I don’t know if I feel safe about you driving in that car!” she yelled, running to Winterfell’s front door. The entire front yard was packed with cars; the party was well underway at this point, with the house filled with happy guests.

“Relax, Mum, Gendry’s a really good driver!” Arya yelled back, dashing out into the snowy front yard with her older sister in tow. “I am, Mrs Stark, I promise!” hollered Gendry from Arya’s side, giving Catelyn an encouraging smile and a thumbs-up.

As soon as Sansa had made her very surprising declaration, Arya had declared that she and Gendry would give her sister a lift to the Tyrell party. Catelyn, though astonished at Sansa’s revelation, had been utterly moved by the rapid transformation that overcame her eldest daughter. Sansa had straightened up, laser-like focus cutting through the absent-minded fog that had seemed to enclose her during her entire Christmas holiday at home, and said, “Let’s go!”

Catelyn folded her hands over her chest. “Be careful!”

“We will!” Arya called.

Sansa turned before she entered the back seat of the car, blue eyes wide. She looked nervous, scared, and incredibly excited. Cat’s heart tugged with warmth. “Good luck, baby!” she yelled suddenly, cupping her hands. “You can do it!”

“Thanks Mum!” Sansa gave her a nervous smile, and a wave. Then she jumped into the backseat and slammed the door.

Behind her, she felt Ned come up and wrap an arm around her waist. He pulled her tight, and waved broadly with the other hand. She raised a hand to wave, too.

“Good luck!” Ned bellowed.

“Good luck!” Cat yelled.

She felt a sudden press of bodies behind her, and it felt as if everyone at the whole party was behind her, yelling, “Good luck!” “You can do it!” boomed Robert Baratheon, who had arrived half an hour ago with more alcohol that seemed humanly possible for one man to carry. He accompanied his well wishing with a belly laugh.

Looking pale with nerves but extremely determined, Sansa rolled down the back window of the car to give everyone a nervous grin and a thumbs-up. Then Gendry honked the horn and pulled the car out of Winterfell’s yard to the chorus of everyone’s cheers of encouragement.

 

 

**Margaery – 10:30 PM**

The party had just gotten underway, and it was already clear that it was a raging success. Gold and white balloons streamed everywhere, champagne was flowing, and the volume of people talking was nearly deafening. Willas was DJing from the corner of the room, and several of his friends were scattered at satellite stations throughout the rest of the first floor. They were currently filling with the house with a mash-up of Santigold and Mozart, and it was definitely working.

Margaery’s younger cousin Elinor pushed her way through the crowded front room, looking glamorous in a floor-length silver sequined maxiskirt and a plain grey T-shirt, her hair plaited round the crown of her head. “Margaery!” she squealed, throwing both arms round her cousin.

“Hi, girls!” Margaery said with a brilliant smile, trying to make it look unforced.

“I saw you in Tatler,” Elinor confided, her eyes big. “At that polo thing. You looked _gorg_ , Margaery.” Behind her trailed their other cousins Alla and Megga, chorusing similar thoughts. They both looked cute: Alla was in a short pink Moschino Cheap & Chic party dress with cut outs on the sides and chunky platform heels, her hair was scraped up into a chic topknot. Even Megga, the least fashion-obsessed of the three, looked on-point in a black trapeze dress and red velvet court shoes.

“Not bad yourselves, girls,” Margaery responded with an approving grin, and they all fell into giddy laughter of excitement as if they’d been blessed by the word of Alexa Chung herself. All of her cousins wanted to be just like Margaery when they grew up; she knew that for a fact. Elinor would be entering uni next year and she wanted desperately to go to Queenscrown College, exactly as Marg had done.

Turning away from her cousins, Margaery surveyed the guests. There were loads of them, and it was an unexpected mix of people—all of Mace and Alerie’s stuffy upper-crust friends, including several members of the House of Lords; Olenna’s rather terrifying circle of acquaintances; Willas’s club kid friends, who were looking around at the house with a mix of jadedness and astonishment—the Tyrells’ townhouse probably made quite a change from the Shoreditch clubs Willas usually frequented, Margaery thought; and Garlan’s polo playing mates, many of whom Margaery had hung up in poster form in her uni flat. She made a mental note to get photos and autographs later (was that Gerold Dayne? Oh, if Sansa were here she would just _die_ ). The Martells had shown up, too—Oberyn, a film star equally as famous in London as he was in Bollywood, and his supermodel niece Arianne, who had arrived wearing a gorgeous concoction of lavender silk and chiffon that cut away subtly in all the right places. Margaery’s flatmate Tyene had come with her gaggle of sisters, who were all _well_ fit, and whom Margaery might have been interested in if not for Sansa.

The Tyrells never passed up a chance to entertain and when they did, they made a point to do it well. Her parents were moving around the room, Mum looking chic in an Emilia Wickstead sheath dress and Dad stretching out a new suit. Margaery couldn’t spot her grandmother in the crowd, but she would’ve bet anything Olenna was holding court in one of the smaller parlours, trading gossip with her contemporaries and terrorising any unfortunate guests who happened to stumble in.

Across the front room she could see that Loras was keeping busy greeting all his old school mates, each one more devastatingly handsome than the last. Marg had to swallow a smile when she recognised more than a few blokes Loras had confessed to snogging, once upon a time. More than a few of them were now married with their wives in tow, and ostensibly straight. _Straight’s just a suggestion, anyway._

All in all the party was a great mix of people of all ages, from all parts. It was marvellously exciting—or at least, it should have been. With a tight, coiled feeling in her chest, Margaery caught her brother’s eye across the crowd and crooked her finger in his direction. As if drawn by magnets they moved across the packed room to meet at the bar.

“Champagne?” she said, tipping her head back and looking up at him.

Loras let out a deep breath, shaking his hair out and pushing it back with one hand. He looked breathless and a bit exhausted. “Yes, please.”

“And how’re things for you?” Margaery asked lightly, after they’d toasted and tipped back their glasses.

“Oh, brilliant… brilliant,” said Loras, not looking at her. “Everything’s great.” There was a moment of silence, both of them refusing to let their shiny social veneers crack. Finally Margaery let out a tiny sigh, stroked his fingers along the sleeve of her brother’s suit, and smiled up at him.

“Another?” she said, tipping her glass back onto the bar and crooking her finger at the barman.

“Definitely,” her brother agreed, sounding just as eager as she felt.

 

 

**Brienne – 10:45 PM**

Brienne was amazed by how quickly Jaime commandeered a chauffeured car for them.

“Courtesy of Lannister Industries,” he explained, offering her his arm with an alcohol-fuelled flourish as she teetered uncertainly on the kerb of the Mayfair Hotel roundabout. There must have been quite a few parties that night in the hotel’s lush ballrooms; limousines and expensive cars kept coming up the roundabout, spilling their dazzling, party-going contents out onto the pavement. To any of them, she and Jaime must have just looked like another pair of revellers, which was funny to think about.

She stepped forward, looking at him dubiously. “I thought you said Daddy cut you off.”

He shrugged expansively and helped her into the backseat of the sleek black car. “We sort of made up.”

They were scarcely in the car when Jaime reached into the liquor compartment and pulled out a tray of glasses, a bucket of ice, and several bottles of _very_ expensive scotch. Brienne’s mouth fell open. “See, I knew we’d have the good stuff,” Jaime told her with a wicked grin. She was still fumbling for words when Jaime rolled down the window separating them from the driver. “To Winterfell!” he said, twisting open a bottle with one hand.

Brienne turned to him, realisation dawning. “Lannister… _where_ are we going?”

He turned to her, grinning. “To Catelyn Stark’s party, of course! You’ve never been. You’ll love it. They practically live in a bloody castle.”

Brienne opened her mouth, and closed it. Looking entirely too pleased with himself, Jaime poured them both several fingers of fine Scotch and raised his glass to Brienne’s in a toast. “Cheers,” he said ceremoniously. “To… unexpected alliances. To New Year’s.”

“To doing something unexpected and not being two miserable fucks,” Brienne said without thinking, and Jaime grinned at her. “That too,” he said, and downed his glass.

They were on their third and fourth glasses respectively, the car moving slowly (or so it felt, it was a bit difficult to tell) through the crowded streets of London, playing increasingly stupid drinking games of Jaime’s invention when Jaime turned to gaze out the window, his eyes wide. “Stop!” he shouted suddenly, and Brienne’s heart nearly popped out of her chest.

They swerved into the parking lot of a brightly lit Tesco, and Brienne turned to Jaime, for a moment seriously concerned about the amount he had been drinking. “Lannister, what the—”

“We can’t just come to a New Year’s party empty-handed, Tarth,” he said, turning to her with a grin like a little boy on Christmas morning. “We have to bring gifts! It’s good luck!”

She stared at him for a good minute. Then she sighed, and moved to unbuckle her seatbeat and exit the car.

“No!” he said, indicating her glass wildly. “Finish! Finish your drink!”

So Brienne finished her glass and got out of the car, leaning against the sleek door. Jaime climbed out of the car and looked at her, eyes bright. “I’ll race you to the store.”

“I’m wearing heels.”

“Then I’ll give you a head start.”

She didn’t even wait for him to say go.

They almost got ejected from Tesco for running through the aisles, shouting at one another like primary school children and gathering armfuls of discount Christmas crackers and cheap Cadbury chocolates. Panting, Jaime got a trolley and dumped all the crackers in. Then he ran down the liquor aisle, making Brienne follow behind him and hold onto every new bottle he picked out. “This one—and I want that one, too—ooh, _that_ looks pretty—”

“Jaime, for Christ’s sake,” Brienne snapped, trying to keep up.

At the till the cashier, who must have been at least eighty, gave them a dirty look. “We’re going to a party,” Jaime explained, giving her a winning smile. “Happy New Year’s!”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll be the most… festive couple there,” the old lady said at last, softening a little but still eying their overflowing shopping trolley, and Jaime choked back a laugh.

“Yes, we will be, don’t you think, darling?” he said to Brienne, who punched him in the arm, hard. “Ow, Tarth, ow—you really don’t play around, do you—” 

In no time they were back in the car, bags and bags of Christmas crackers in the boot, and fresh glasses of Scotch in hand.

 

 

**Sansa – 11:00 PM**

“Look, just snog her,” Gendry instructed, his eyes on the road. They were on the A40 to London, inching along in mind-numbingly slow traffic. “Just snog her _really_ well, so there’s no question about if you really like her or not.”

 “Drive, you bloody idiot,” Arya told him witheringly. She was perched in the front seat, knees drawn up to her chest, her eyes lit up with excitement and the glow of the motorway lights. 

“No,” said Sansa, clutching her handbag so tightly her knuckles hurt, “it’s good advice.”

“It’s good advice!” Gendry repeated loudly. He looked at Arya in the passenger seat, a look of triumph on his face. “She thinks it’s good advice, Arya!”

Arya’s mouth dropped open incredulously. “Watch the road!”

“It worked for you, innit!” Gendry was looking more and more pleased with himself. He turned to Sansa’s little sister, raising his eyebrows like he had a significant point to prove. “See, I do know what it’s all about!”

Arya coloured, reaching out and smacking him hard on the arm. “Jesus Christ, Gendry! Would you just shut up!”

Sansa began to laugh, uncurling her hands to grip the fabric of the backseat. Then she started to laugh hysterically, and abruptly started hyperventilating.

“Oh, my God. I don’t think I can do this. Stop the car! Stop the car!”

 

 

**Renly – 11:10 PM**

It had taken him the better part of an hour to convince himself, but Renly had done it. In the spirit of Christmas, in the spirit of the holidays, in the spirit of the memory of the crushed look on Loras’ face the last time Renly had seen him and the absolutely unbearable thought of never seeing Loras’ face again, Renly had made his decision. He only hoped it was the right one. 

He dashed out of the room, wheeling around the stairs and nearly losing his grasp on the bannister as he took the steps two at a time. “The car! I need a car!”

 

 

**Sansa – 11:20 PM**

Once Arya had talked Sansa out of bolting out of the car at the first opportunity, Sansa was able to calm down somewhat. She sat back against the seat with her eyes closed, practising deep breathing, thinking only of Margaery. _Margaery._ But just as her enthusiasm had turned around and she remembered how much she really _did_ want to make it to this party after all, Sansa opened her eyes and realised how slowly they were driving. They had finally reached the outskirts of London, but would they actually make it in time? After ten minutes of agonised silence, her nerves shredded to absolute bits, she couldn’t hold back.

“The traffic!” she wailed. “Oh, my god, this is terrible!”

“Sansa, calm down,” Arya commanded, whirling about to look at her. “I know we’ll be able to get there by midnight. So just shut up and stop worrying.”

Everyone looked pointedly at the clock. 11:25 P.M. It didn’t look promising.

“I mean, we’re really close.” Sansa was dangerously close to hyperventilating again. “Should I just get out and walk?”

“Sansa, calm down. And get a grip. This is not _Notting Hill_ , we can’t just stop traffic for you.”

Sansa put her head in her hands and started breathing very quickly.

“Listen,” Arya said urgently, whipping around. She unbuckled her seatbelt and climbed into the backseat to Sansa’s feeble noises of protest. Gendry had apparently decided to shut up and drive, safety be damned, and voiced no objection to letting Arya do exactly as she pleased. Arya settled onto the backseat and made her older sister look at her by physically putting both hands under Sansa’s chin and tipping up Sansa’s head. “I know you can do this, Sansa. I _know_ you can. Do you want to know how I know?” Sansa nodded, feeling lightheaded. “Because I’ve seen you do much harder things than this before. You dumped that arsehole, Joffrey.”

“He was a right arsehole!” came Gendry’s voice from the driver’s seat. “Bloody git.”

“Thanks, Gendry.” Arya took Sansa’s hands. “Point is, it should be _easy_ to do this! Margaery likes you, you know she does. It’s like she’s asked you a question—and this is how you’re answering it. That’s all.”

“Okay,” Sansa said in a very small voice. The world was re-establishing itself before her eyes, losing its hazy sheen of panic… and what Arya was saying actually made a lot of sense. “Okay.”

“Easy,” Arya repeated, reassuringly. “Just remember that.”

“Yes, remember that!” Gendry said loudly from the front seat, and they both jumped. He twisted his head to stare at both of them in the rear-view mirror. “ _God_ , Arya, I don’t see how you can give your own sister all this simple advice and then turn around and refuse to hear it whenever I—”

“Gendry, would you just!” Arya burst out, her cheeks burning. By the way she hurriedly crossed her arms over her chest and slumped back in the seat, it was clear they’d had this conversation before.

Sansa lifted her head, immediately intrigued by the scent of any relationship drama that was not her own. “So… are you two together?”

“No,” blurted Arya, at the exact moment that Gendry exclaimed, “Yes!”

“It’s complicated!” Arya snapped, looking murderous. She gave Sansa a look that clearly said, _Traitor._

“It isn’t, though!” Gendry said. “See it’s like this, Sansa.” He craned his neck around to look at her imploringly, and the effect was so sweet that Sansa had to smile. “We’re friends for three years now, and even though—”

“Watch the road!” Arya snapped, sounding so much like Catelyn that Sansa laughed.

Gendry obediently turned back to the road, but his enthusiasm was undimmed. He spoke as rationally as if he were giving a presentation for school, only with a lot more passion. “Even though when I first met Arya she was this scrawny little thing and I thought she was a boy for six months, she’s sixteen now and she’s right fit, ‘kay?”

“Gendry!”

“She’s the only girl I’ve ever met who could kick my ass,” Gendry went on, unabashed, “and she’ll always tell me if I’m bein’ a prick. And she doesn’t get angry when I tell her when _she’s_ bein’ one. We like all the same stuff, and I’m so boring now, I don’t want to hang out with any other mates, only Arya, ‘cause she’s that cool. _And—_ ” he went on meaningfully, catching Sansa’s eye in the rearview mirror, “we _have_ fooled around, and we both liked it!”

Now Arya was the one with her face in her hands. “I am _not_ listening!” she moaned, curling into a ball. “I am not listening to this!”

“Now, doesn’t that sound simple, Sansa?” Gendry asked. “Doesn’t that sound easy? If that’s how I feel, and how _she_ feels too—an’ I know you do, Arya! You just won’t admit it ‘cause you’re scared!—shouldn’t we be together? Shouldn’t we?”

“Yeah,” Sansa said after a moment, unable to stop herself from beaming at the sheer hopefulness in Gendry’s voice. Was this how Arya had felt, playing Cupid for her and Margaery? It was _so_ much easier being on the outside looking in. “If that’s really how you both feel, I don’t think that being scared should stop you from being together.”

Arya let out a moan, and Sansa couldn’t resist getting in just one more dig. “I’ve just got to say, I hope you’re both using protection,” she said with mock concern, and the lump that was her younger sister let out a stifled groan and clapped her hands over her ears.

“Do you know how painful that is to hear?” said the lump furiously, sounding absolutely murderous. “ _Especially_ from you?”

“Oh don’t worry,” Gendry said reassuringly. “I’ve got that sorted.” He smiled at Sansa in the rearview mirror, and even though it ought to have been weird discussing her younger sister’s sex life with her sister’s sort-of boyfriend, it somehow wasn’t. “And we haven’t had proper sex yet, anyway. Not until she officially agrees to be my girlfriend.”

Sansa leaned forward and patted him on the shoulder. “Gendry, if you get me to this party by midnight, I promise you I will do everything in my power to get Arya to say yes to dating you officially. If she really wants to.” Arya groaned. “Which I think she does,” Sansa said, more loudly.

It was as if her words were all it had taken—Gendry let out a whoop as the traffic ahead of them started moving. “I think we’re going to make it by midnight, Sansa! We really are!”

 

 

**Stannis – 11:30 PM**

On the living room-turned-dance floor, Shireen and Rickon were shyly conversing as they danced. From what Stannis could see, they were even holding hands. As he watched, Rickon lifted his arm to twirl Shireen around in a dance move that looked straight out the 1960s, and Shireen started giggling, her mouth open in a happy, laughing smile. Stannis frowned until he physically couldn’t stop the smile from cracking through.

“Too bloody cute,” he mumbled, in spite of himself, and lifted his mobile to take a few quick pictures. He had never felt like more of a parent.

“Before you know it, they’ll be grown,” said a voice at his elbow. Stannis turned abruptly and saw Catelyn Stark, looking very elegant in silver. She shrugged at him and smiled. “It goes quickly.”

They both paused for a moment, watching their children dance together.

“This is a lovely party,” he said formally to Catelyn, and found that he meant it. It was a good mix of people, and crowded enough to feel like a real party, while personable enough to retain the cosy aura of a small gathering of family and friends. Catelyn and her husband Ned were consummate hosts, circulating and making every guest feel more than welcome in their home.

Catelyn smiled warmly. “It’s so wonderful that you could come, Stannis.” She paused, and he could see the well-meaning concern in her eyes. He had always liked her, he thought suddenly; she was a very sensible sort of woman. The kind of woman that Selyse had been, in the beginning. “And how are you holding up?”

He didn’t resent the question, not from her. He could tell that she truly meant it, unlike others who sometimes asked out of obligation. “Very well, thank you,” Stannis said, and even granted Catelyn a smile. He turned back to look at his daughter and her son dancing together.

“I was a bit worried, at first,” he confessed, “when Shireen told me how she felt about your son. Not that—well, I knew he was a good sort of boy.” Stannis paused. “It’s only that… this is all very new to me, being a single parent—being a parent at all, really. But now, seeing them together, I have to say I feel better.” They both watched Rickon and Shireen; Rickon was handling Shireen as delicately and awkwardly as if she were a piece of fine china, and the two children were smiling happily at one another.

“Oh, Ned would skin Rickon alive if he did anything amiss,” Catelyn said seriously. She crossed her arms. “That is, if there were any Rickon left after Robb, Jon, and Sansa got through with him. Don’t worry—he’s been well trained. He’ll treat your little girl properly.” She turned to smile at Stannis, a light twinkle in her eyes. “And I’ll have you know, by the way, I’m a very laid-back mother of the groom.”

Stannis was startled for a moment, before realizing that she was joking. “Well,” he said, mustering an easy smile to match hers, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Just then Davos appeared with two drinks in hand, his tie loosened slightly around his neck. “Looks like puppy love,” he observed, extending a glass to Stannis, who accepted it carefully. “Cheers, mate.” He turned to Catelyn, who’d greeted them both effusively as they’d come in, and threw his arms out with a broad grin as if he’d known her for years instead of mere hours. “Fantastic party—beautiful home—stunning hostess—I couldn’t ask for a better place to spend my New Year’s!”

In the face of Davos’ enthusiastic charm, Catelyn actually blushed and excused herself, smiling, to move off to another clump of guests. Davos fell into place beside Stannis, and they both watched Shireen and Rickon dancing for a moment. “Well done, you,” Stannis said, genuinely impressed. Davos took a deep sip of his drink, something with juniper berries, and waved it off.

“See, I told you not to worry,” he said, nodding at Rickon and Shireen. “It’s quite sweet, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Stannis in a muffled voice, and took a sip of his drink. Although he and Davos had spent much of the party standing companionably alongside one another, he suddenly had the pressing need to say something very important.

“Davos, I want to thank you for coming to this party,” he began, gripped by a feeling that couldn’t be restrained. Whatever it was, it felt like some sort of holiday spirit touched with mania and… something else. He turned to Davos. “I know you could have been with your family tonight—but the fact that you chose to be here, to spend New Year’s with Shireen and me… That means quite a bit.” He hesitated. “To both of us. So, thank you.”

Davos looked at him, and then his handsome rugged face creased in a grin, blue eyes twinkling. “Of course, Stannis. I’d much rather be celebrating the New Year at an MP’s party than spending the night with my wife’s ancient parents in Yorkshire.”

Stannis summoned up a grudging laugh. He disliked people being flippant when he wanted to be serious. Well, he always wanted to be serious, but that was beside the point. “But really, Davos. You gave up your time with your family to come be here with us. I—”

“Really, Stannis,” Davos echoed him, interrupting. “This is a wonderful party, and I’m greatly enjoying myself. And as for not being with my family tonight… well.” He fell quiet for a moment, and then began to speak slowly. “Stannis, I do hope I’m not overstepping my bounds here. But you know, after knowing you all these years, and only just getting to know little Shireen—who’s just wonderful, she’s just an incredible little girl—I’ve rather begun to feel as if you both are my family, too, in a way.”

It was everything Stannis could have hoped Davos might say, and everything he himself had been struggling to voice. He let out a short breath of something that felt like astonishment, or—or something very good, at any rate.

Davos, watching him, must have mistaken Stannis’s silence for displeasure. He had begun to look a bit grim with nerves. “I do hope I’m not—presuming too much. I only…”

“No,” Stannis said, forcing himself to speak, and shook his head. “Not at all.” He felt a great calm spreading over him right down to his feet, and when he turned to Davos, he could see in the golden light of the party that the other man was already smiling. He put one hand on the other man’s shoulder, and felt rather than heard the great exhale of breath that Davos released. Stannis understood that feeling of relief, he truly did. But he had never expected that Davos might feel the same way.

“It really is quite a good party, isn’t it?” Stannis said at last, and Davos just looked at him and nodded, understanding. And that seemed to be all that either of them needed to say.

 

 

**Jon – 11:30 pm**

No matter what happened to convince him otherwise, Jon would not be calling Sam that night.

He had decided early in the night that it was simply ridiculous. Sam was obviously enjoying the best New Year’s Eve he’d had in a long time, with the nicest girl he’d dated in what seemed like years (Jon couldn’t honestly recall Sam’s last girlfriend before Gilly… if there had even been one?). There was no need to interrupt Sam’s night, and cause himself extra anxiety while doing it. And Jon was actually having a nice time with his family, all things considered.

He had to admit—no one in the Stark family had expected to hear Sansa’s impromptu speech.It would take some time to get used to the idea of her dating a girl, but not in a bad way or anything. Practically the entire family had assumed Sansa was exclusively into blokes, even if one of said blokes had often been considered by Jon and Arya to be a rather half-assed incarnation of the Antichrist. Surely this girl Margaery would be better than all of that.

  _All right, maybe_ Arya _knew something was up,_ he thought with renewed interest, turning his beer bottle around in his hands. _But when did those two get so chummy all of a sudden?_ It felt as if Jon’s female cousins been at each other’s throats (usually about things like Arya stealing Sansa’s eyeliner or Sansa’s radical notion that the two _Kill Bill_ movies were not quite as feminist as Tarantino fans like Arya claimed) since infancy. Regardless, he was happy for the two of them. Arya’s face had practically lit up watching Sansa carry out her epic speech, making Jon half-expect Arya to start brandishing gigantic cue cards telling her older sister when to speak slower, or when to prompt Robb to share what he felt for Dany.

Jon remembered going rigid at that point, the picture-perfect moment when Robb had stood to confess how he’d first realised his love for his wife. Refusing to glance at the beaming couple, Jon had tried to let their words pass right through him instead. He didn’t need any further reminders of their undying love for one another and mercifully, his view of the party just now was about the furthest thing from sappy love declarations as he could get.

He was sitting next to Robb amid a roaring clump of Stark men and guests, all of whom were in various stages of getting piss drunk. Robb himself was flushed redder than his hair, the wind getting knocked out of him by both countless bottles of Stella Artois and Rickard Karstark’s brand of toilet humour. Jon was grateful that Robb didn’t chastise him for having a still unfinished bottle in his hands. Robb knew better than anyone that if Jon couldn’t get through one drink at least as quickly as his cousin could, then something was wrong. That had been a general rule of thumb ever since the two of them had started drinking together as teenagers, Robb always leading the way; but perhaps Robb was just too busy now to notice. 

Just then Jon felt his phone vibrate. He didn’t even have to surreptitiously check the screen to know whom it would be.

 

**_Happy New Year! You busy, mate? We can talk._ **

Jon fought the urge to roll his eyes. That was typical text speak for Sam. Whether or not Jon was indeed busy, Sam would always ring Jon if he really wanted to speak to him. Somewhere along the line Sam had sussed out the fact that Jon was much less evasive on the phone than he was via text, and also that Jon was too polite to ever avoid a call. Of course Sam’s call timing was usually pristine, and Jon could rarely make himself turn down the chance to talk to his best friend.

“Oi, Robb,” he said, tapping Robb’s shoulder. “I’m just going to talk to Sam for a bit, alright?”

Even though he had spoken at a perfectly reasonable volume, Jon’s voice was practically swallowed up in the fresh roar of laughter at Karstark’s latest quip. Turning slightly to face him, Robb nodded, laughed, and waved Jon off, probably already trying to come up with the best possible comeback.

Jon left the room and retreated into the surprisingly empty family den. With a slightly sick feeling in his stomach, he quickly typed out and sent his reply.

 

**_Sure thing, Sam. We’ll have to just text though. Drinking sesh with the Starks atm._ **

 

He wasn’t going to pick up that night, no matter how many times his phone rang.

 

**Renly – 11:40 PM**

Under usual circumstances it took only a quarter-hour to reach Belgravia from 10 Downing Street, but tonight London traffic was doubled in the ecstatic crush of New Year’s Eve—and Renly was more nervous than he ever could remember being. Compared to this, speaking on the Parliament floor for the first time, and even the rather nightmarish experience of coming out to his older brothers, had been relative walks in the park. After twenty minutes of moving at a dead crawl, he seriously began to debate jumping out and trying to get to Loras’s party by foot. Ultimately Renly decided that might cause more commotion than it was worth, and instead resigned himself to leaning painfully against the seat as the car inched through traffic, just as subject to the whims of the city’s busy streets as any private citizen. 

His driver turned round to peer through the open divider window, a bright smile on his face. “Going to have a spot of fun tonight, sir?”

Renly was startled out of his grim, white-knuckled silence. “Oh—why yes, I am.” He paused, stomach tightening with nerves, and then added rather weakly, “That is, I hope to.”

“Going to see a special someone, then?”

“Er—” Renly couldn’t even think about it properly without freezing up. He made some rather vague swishy motions with his hands. “You know.”

His driver chuckled under his breath, resting one hand under his chin as he turned away to gaze into traffic. “Best of luck, sir.”

 _Finally_ they pulled up in front of 75 Rose Road Court, and Renly sprang out of the car before waiting for the door to be opened for him. Be bothered with that—he had a man to find and a very important declaration to make.

He smoothed down the front of his coat self-consciously as he crossed the pavement, and paused for a moment to glance up and down the stately rows of snowy white townhouses stretching in both directions. For such a famously sedate neighbourhood, he could already hear the music leaking from the home before him. Loras’s family must have quite the agreement with the neighbours, Renly thought with jumpy amusement, or perhaps the neighbours had just all been invited. The street was packed with luxury sports cars, making it clear that numerous guests had already arrived, and if that weren’t enough indication of the party’s location, the door of number 75 was adorned with a gorgeous wreath dressed with gold sparklers.

 _Right, this is it. Here I go._ Going quickly up the steps, Renly paused before the door and steeled himself. Then he took a deep breath and rang the bell.

The door swung open before him almost immediately. The well-dressed stranger standing in the entry hall took one look at Renly, did a double take, and seemed to forget how to put words together. “Er—” he managed at last. “Mr—Mr Prime Minister? Is that really you?”

“It is indeed,” Renly replied brightly, fighting the urge to turn around and run away while he still could. The man was still gawping, so Renly tipped him a winning smile. “This is all, ah, part of the service now. I’m doing house calls, spreading goodwill and cheer in a sort of—trial holiday programme.” Sometimes Renly was so good at pulling things out of his arse that he even frightened himself.

The butler—yes, he was wearing a uniform, that must be it—regained some of his composure and nodded as if he met prime ministers every day. “Oh. Right. Right, of course. Very good, sir.”

Renly smiled and extended his hand for a quick handshake. “You see—I’m actually looking for Loras. I’ve got a few very important things about… er… state business to discuss with him.”

“Of course, sir.” The butler bent his head respectfully, before drawing up again with an unusually knowing look on his face. “You’ll find him right through the main room.” Then, as he waved Renly through the door, he leant closer with a slightly more conspiratorial tone. “It’s truly an honour, sir.”

“Thank you.” Renly hastily shrugged off his overcoat before walking into the party, with the distinct feeling that his skin was actually cooling down in his state of absolute fear. The house was packed with people, balloons and streamers everywhere, music throbbing, the din of conversation very loud. He ignored everything—his only thought was for Loras.

People were visibly turning to whisper to each other: “Is that the _Prime Minister?_ ” Now hordes of guests were parting to make way for him, stepping back and staring at Renly in that bright starstruck way people did, and he dimly sensed the tension mounting in his chest. Yet all the surroundings seemed to recede into distant silence as he scanned the crowded rooms, heart leaping, trying to pick out Loras somewhere in the throng. Moving into the second room as if in a dream, Renly caught sight of a curly-haired man on an elevated stand in the corner, wearing a T-shirt with a graphic print of black-and-white roses and a massive pair of headphones. The man seemed to notice Renly at the same time Renly noticed him: his mouth fell open and he reached out for his laptop, immediately dimming the volume of music in the room. The party suddenly was gripped in a great hush, and everyone began to look about in bewilderment.

That was when Renly saw him. He saw Loras.

Loras was standing close to a girl who was his dead ringer, equally beautiful with the same big brown eyes, curly brown hair, and rosebud lips. Speaking quietly to one another, they leaned close over their flutes of champagne by the bar.

 _He looks sad_. That was the first thought that jumped into Renly’s head. _He looks sad. Is that because—of me?_

Just as Renly thought it, staring stock-still in Loras’ direction, Loras looked up in confusion, turning his head to see where the music had gone. Then he saw Renly—and looked, for a moment, as if he’d forgotten how to breathe.

Renly felt as if he might have been punched in the stomach. _He really did mean what he wrote, didn’t he? He did. He did._

“Mr Prime Minister,” Loras managed at last, turning to him. His eyes were wide, almost childlike in their astonishment. “You—you came.”

“Yes,” Renly said, taking just one step forward. He was in the middle of the room, and the guests seemed to have formed a circle around him. He could see people eagerly whispering, craning their heads for a better view, and holding up mobile phones to snap photos. “You see… I got your invitation.”

“But…” Loras looked as he couldn’t believe it. “But Mr Prime Minister, you—”

“Call me _Renly_ , please,” he corrected, and felt himself starting to smile. He couldn’t help it. Crossing the last few metres through the parting crowd of people he reached out, took Loras’s hands, and squeezed hard. “To you, I’m always Renly. Happy New Year’s, Loras.”

His heart was pounding so hard he felt dizzy. Loras’s hands were warm, perfectly so, but for a moment Renly was terrified that perhaps he’d understood incorrectly, that Loras would turn away from him now, or frown, or… But then—

“Happy New Year’s,” Loras answered softly, a tiny smile growing on his own face. “Renly.”

Renly was only dimly aware of the rising buzz of voices around them. All he knew was that those voices meant he couldn’t pull Loras close and kiss him the way he wanted to because of all those mobile phones around them, because of the press, because of the stupid fact that he wasn’t openly out to the nation and, damnit—because of myriad other reasons that were becoming steadily less important as long as Loras kept on looking at him like that.

“Willas, for Christ’s sake—” The girl next to Loras stepped away and gestured at the DJ in the corner, waving at him to turn the music back up. Widening his eyes in understanding, Willas obliged and put on something mellower, which Renly dimly noted and appreciated; slowly the fascinated clamour around them died out as people fell back to their previous conversations. Relaxing slightly, Renly pulled Loras aside to stand behind a large bouquet of balloons, somewhere where they wouldn’t be quite so on display. “I saw your invitation,” he explained again in a soft voice, and swallowed hard. “So I decided to reconsider my New Year’s plans.”

Loras’s eyes grew large with understanding, and some other indefinable emotion as well.

“And you came,” he replied quietly. Loras was still gripping his champagne flute, but Renly suddenly noticed that his hands were shaking. In that instant, Renly mentally cursed everything between them, everything that stopped him from taking Loras and kissing him right there to show him exactly how he felt.

“ _Yes_ ,” he said, as if that could communicate everything he felt. “And Loras, I—”

But Loras cut him off, a look of intense worry on his face. “Look, Renly. I feel awful, and I’ve got to let you know— _nothing_ happened between that ambassador and me. Absolutely nothing. I was so surprised, and he had just pulled me over to whisper something horrible when you came in—Anyway, it’s done with.” He paused, biting his lip tentatively. “And, Renly, in case you were wondering—and if you want to sack me for saying it you _can_ , but this is how I feel—I meant everything that I wrote. I really do care for you. I do.”

It was as if he had stepped into a golden bubble of warmth. “Well, that’s funny,” Renly said, forcing himself to speak lightly. “Because I actually think I feel the same way about you.” _And I honestly don’t think I’ve ever felt this way about anyone before, not ever. Not like this._

Loras’ face spread into a smile; his eyes looked slightly hot. “So… you’re not going to sack me.”

“Certainly not,” Renly said, grinning back. He slid his fingers through Loras’s for a moment, squeezing their hands together. “Besides, you truly are a superb deputy chief of staff. Those don’t exactly grow on trees, I’ll have you know.”

And then before Renly quite realised it, Loras’s sister was back, glancing coyly at the two of them and hardly bothering to hide her smile. “Well, Loras! Be a gentleman and introduce us, won’t you?” With a stunning feeling of normalcy, his nervousness evaporating like a day’s frost, Renly turned to her and all three of them began to chat.

Renly had only been speaking to Loras and his sister, Margaery, for a few moments, discussing airy nothings, mostly the planning of the party; he couldn’t remember any of it, he was just so lightheaded and ridiculously happy with relief to be there, to be with Loras on this night when nothing else mattered—when Margaery suddenly turned to her brother and tightened her hand about his arm. Her face had gone completely pale. “Loras,” she hissed.

“What?” Loras said, turning. Then his mouth fell open. “Oh, my _god_. She _came_!”

Renly turned around. Standing in the entryway leading from the front door was a beautiful girl with her long red hair flying all around her. She was wearing a sky blue jumper, leggings, and a pair of Wellies, and all things told, looked a little underdressed for the party.

“Margaery!” the girl yelled, and started running across the room.

**Sansa – 11:45 PM**

“Margaery!” she yelled. She wasn’t even self-conscious. All of her normal nerves were gone, replaced only by adrenaline and something that felt like wings. Maybe this was what love felt like?

She paused in the doorway, scanning. _There._ There was Margaery.

Sansa ran across the crowded room without even pausing for breath, people parting for her with a mix of surprised and delighted expressions on their faces. She came to a panting halt before Margaery, who was standing next to Loras and… _was that the Prime Minister?_

“Sansa?” Margaery said in disbelief, and all of Sansa’s attention was immediately drawn back to her even if she _was_ standing next to the most powerful man in Britain. She looked amazing, dressed in an ivory chiffon dress that looked like something a Greek goddess might have worn to go hunting. There was a thick gold necklace around her neck and emerald studs in her ears, but the only adornment Sansa needed to see was the hesitant, incredulous smile that trembled on Margaery’s lips.

“I, um, reconsidered,” Sansa said, out of breath. “About my New Year’s plans, and everything.”

“Okay…” Margaery was beginning to smile a bit wider.

“We never got to finish saying goodbye, not properly,” Sansa went on breathlessly, “and I was just thinking, that maybe we ought to—”

She leaned in at the exact same moment that Margaery did, and then they were kissing.

When they broke apart what felt like ages later, Sansa’s head was spinning for more reasons than one. “Oh, my god,” she said faintly, glancing around at the party, all the glittering contents of the room and the beautifully dressed people. Grasping Margaery’s hands to keep her balance, Sansa snuck another look at the man next to Loras—it _was_ the Prime Minister. Clearly Loras had been working hard. _Wait until Arya hears that I snogged my best friend in front of the Prime Minister!_ Suddenly remembering her own appearance, Sansa rested both hands on her waist self-consciously. “Oh, Marg, I’m totally underdressed—I—”

“Are you joking?” Margaery looked at her warmly. “You look gorgeous. And… Sans, I think you’re wearing my jumper.”

“What?” Sansa looked down at herself, and let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, my god, I must have taken it home with me on the holidays. I just—I didn’t even think—”

“Twist of fate, don’t you think?” Margaery was smiling at her with unabashed fondness. They both knew how their clothing got mixed up: it was just something that happened when you were best mates and shared practically everything. She leaned forward, lips brushing Sansa’s ear. “That’s all right,” she whispered. “You can have it. You can have anything you want, Sansa. All you have to do is ask.”

Sansa’s heart did a sort of backwards somersault, and before she even had time to think she had leaned forward and was kissing Margaery again. Margaery’s tongue slipped over hers, Sansa let out a responding noise of approval, and she abruptly had an electric jolt of realisation— _I’m snogging my best friend, and it is amazing._

“New Year’s kiss,” she managed, pausing for breath. It was sort of redundant, at this point, but Sansa had always thought that it was better to say things out loud. That made them real. She opened her eyes and stared evenly at Marg, breaking into a smile. “I want you to be my New Year’s kiss.”

“Done,” said Margaery decisively, grinning from ear to ear like the Cheshire Cat, and pulled Sansa in for another. _Arya was right_ , was the last thing Sansa thought before she put her arms around Margaery’s neck and forgot everything else. _It_ was _easy. It was all so easy._

She couldn’t find anything more to say—but it seemed that between the two of them, they had already voiced everything that needed to be said.

 

 

**Tyrion – 11:45 PM**

Shae’s house was dark. Swearing, he jumped back in the car and aimed for the village. He suffered a moment of indecision at the mouth of the drive— _left or right? Left or right?!_ _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ —before sending his car left.

He pulled into the village, trying to remember the direction of the restaurant. It was so different driving than it had been on foot. He finally found it—and thank God, the lights were on.

Tyrion parked the car and jumped out, nearly slipping in the snow. He bolted up the entrance steps and flung open the door.

“Shae!” he said loudly. The entire crowded restaurant turned to stare at him, the half-man with a hurried expression on his face standing in the doorway. _Stare away, motherfuckers. I’m a man on a mission._

Shae was standing behind the bar, wearing a navy blue dress, and no makeup except for some inky mascara and red lipstick. She looked, Tyrion thought, absolutely stunning. She came around the side of the bar, setting down the tray of clean wineglasses in her arms, and stared at him.

“Tyrion… what the hell are you doing here?” she asked slowly. 

“Hello, Shae,” Tyrion said. He swallowed. “Let’s start with that. Hello. It’s nice to see you again.”

 

 

**Catelyn – 11:45 PM**

She, Edmure, and Lysa had just posed for a series of sibling portraits that Brynden had insisted upon, ones that would no doubt turn out just as dreadful as every photo taken of Catelyn and her siblings ever had. Lysa had stopped smiling in photos circa 1988, and now adopted a pained grimace that looked simultaneously as if she were constipated _and_ praying for the picture-taker’s soul, and Edmure had but one picture-taking expression, which she and Ned not-so-kindly referred to as ‘Eddie’s shit-eating grin.’ Catelyn herself wasn’t particularly vain about photos, but knew that she could go either way depending on the lighting—no one passed forty without learning to fear flash photography. So she was trying to wrest the ancient camera from Brynden to insist that he be the next photo subject, fair was only fair, when she looked up to see two of her faculty members burst through the door, beaming and bearing carrier bags full of Christmas crackers and alcohol. Catelyn paused with her hands on the camera, her jaw dropping open slightly. _Wait—could that be—is it actually—?_

Jaime Lannister rushed up to her, his handsome face split in a broad beam. He kissed her on both cheeks merrily, stubble brushing against her face, and pressed a bag into her arms. “Professor Stark! It’s such a pleasure to be here. Thank you, as always, for the invitation.”

She raised her eyebrows at the smell of scotch on his breath— _naughty, naughty—_ but couldn’t help but beam back at him. She’d never seen him look so genuinely happy: arch, yes, satisfied, yes, but genuinely happy? Never like this. “Happy New Year’s, Jaime. I’m so happy you could make it.”

“Hello, Catelyn,” said Brienne Tarth as she passed, addressing Catelyn with a jolly ease that she never had when sober. She was wearing a silvery dress, some sparkly jewellery, and a fantastic smile. Catelyn had never even _seen_ Brienne smile like that before. “What a fantastic party!”

She watched, mouth slightly open, as the two of them bounded into the party, joking and laughing and calling to one another. The two of them immediately started to distribute the Christmas crackers to all the revellers, laughing and clapping them into people’s hands, and all the guests seemed to accept them with excitement.

Cat let out a tiny shriek of alarm when Ned came dashing up to her, wrapping his hands around her waist from behind and pressing a kiss to her cheek. He was beaming from ear to ear, in ridiculously good spirits just as he always was when his friends and a pint or two were involved. He nuzzled her ear, breath warm. “Cat darling, come on, you’ve really got to see this. Robert’s gotten up on stage, and he’s going to sing, and—”

“Wait, what?” she said frantically, still a little stunned. “Wait for me!” She went quickly after her husband, feeling quite clearly that even though she’d planned this party within an inch of its life, it was obviously out of her hands by now.

Well, wasn’t that what a good party was all about?

 

 

**Jon – 11:50 PM**

He was weak. Completely, pathetically, out of it. He couldn’t stop himself from dialling his best mate, and Sam picked up on the second ring. “Happy New Year, mate!”

“Happy New Year, Sam."

“So… how’s everything at Winterfell?” Sam sounded politely hopeful, but not too much. He knew Jon far too well, after all. “How’s the party?”

“Er… the drinks are fantastic.” Jon scratched at the corner of the coffee table, already inwardly chickening out on the conversation he’d promised Sam they’d have. “How’s… things with you? How’s Gilly? And Thailand, and everything?”

He could hear Sam drawing in his breath effusively. “Oh, she’s amazing, Jon, she—she’s just like no other woman I’ve ever known, you know? She’s so cool, and we’ve been having such a naff time—she really is the Rosie to my Samwise.” There was a pause, and Sam sighed with happiness. “Never thought I’d say that, but it’s true.”

“Yeah.” Jon paused awkwardly. “I meant like how’s she doing, is she well.”

“Oh.” Sam started snorting with ill-contained laughter. “Ah, I’m sorry. It’s just that things have been going so brilliantly, you know.”

“I can see that.” Jon tried not to sound as utterly miserable as he felt. He checked his watch—a quarter to midnight, and he was holed up in an empty room talking on his mobile. Fantastic.

“Don’t be jealous though, mate,” Sam said consolingly. “You’ll always be the Frodo to my Samwise.”

This wasn’t the first time Sam had posed this particular analogy, but it never failed to cheer Jon. Tonight, it felt positively bracing. He leaned forward onto the coffee table, feeling almost wistful. “Haha. Really?”

“Yeah.” Sam chuckled. “Although everyone knows they’re gay for each other, mate. Straight up gay.”

Jon let out a real laugh at that, smiling even though he didn’t feel like it. “ _Sam_.”

“C’mon, it’s true though, isn’t it? ‘Master Frodo,’” Sam whimpered. “‘Oh, Frodo. Come into my hobbit hole!’”

Jon couldn’t stop laughing. When he finally sobered enough to speak again, he was still chuckling a little. “That’s really nice of you, mate, I’m touched.”

“Well, you know. If it weren’t for Gilly, I always thought you and I would make nice life partners. Apart from the whole shagging bit.”

“It’s nice to know I’m your backup plan,” Jon said honestly.

“Yeah, well if things don’t work out with Gilly—not that I don’t want them to, but sooner or later she’s going to realise that I’m just a fat nerdy bloke who can’t even do real magic,” Sam laughed with genuine ruefulness, “yeah, in that case, you can be my husband. That’s cool with me.”

“Right, it’s a deal.” Jon couldn’t help it. Just like always, speaking to Sam had cheered him up immensely.

Sam laughed, his comfortingly familiar wheezy chuckle dying away softly. “So, what time is it for you there, mate? It’s already gone 3 AM here… nearly 4. It’s a new year!”

“Erm.” Jon felt himself go sweaty-palmed again. “It’s nearly midnight.”

Sam’s voice took on a new significance. “Oh.”

 _Oh, no_. Jon started panicking. “Yeah, so I’d love to chat longer but the party’s kind of in full swing and…”

“Which is why it’s dead silent where you are, right?” Sam snorted, and Jon winced. Best mates were the worst—you could never get anything over on them. Sam in particular had the unfair advantage of being much smarter than he looked. “Seriously, mate… Are you doing all right?"

“Yeah. No. No, I’m not.” Jon took a deep breath, his head pounding. All his nerves seemed to have returned with a vengeance. “Sam, I think this may be the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

“Was it really my idea though?” Sam asked wisely, with that irritatingly patient tone of his. Jon gritted his teeth, knowing his best friend was right. “Jon, you know I don’t mind talking to you about this—I want to help you. But you need to stop blaming me for the whole situation, yeah? I’m only trying to help you, I didn’t force you into anything.”

“You’re the one who insisted on ringing me tonight…” Jon tried, feeling like a child even as he said it.

“Only because I knew you’d be a puddle on the floor if you didn’t have someone to talk to,” Sam said patiently. “It’s true though, innit?” He paused. “You’d be lying if you told me you haven’t thought of telling Dany the truth at least once.”

“Fine! I would’ve done, if only she wasn’t married to my bloody cousin.” Jon’s head had started to throb. “Besides, what good would telling her actually do?

“Jon, we’ve been through this.” Sam said. “Look, I’m not pushing you to do anything you don’t want to do. But think of it this way—if you say something, it’ll finally get all this weight off your chest. Don’t you want that?”

“’Course I do,” Jon hissed. “It’s been practically gnawing at me for ages.”

“Then go for it! I don’t see why you shouldn’t.”

“How am I supposed to tell her though?” Jon burst out in frustration. “Am I just supposed to spill the _pathetic_ fact that I’ve been in love with her this entire time?” He paused, wearing a circle into the rug with the tip of his Converse trainer. “I wish… I wish I could tell her, just so she knows how amazing I think she is. I want the chance to be able to do that, without—without fucking everything up. I want to see the look on her face, just to see, just to…”

But that wasn’t true. Jon didn’t love Dany unselfishly. He didn’t want to just tell Dany that he loved her, and every single tiny reason why he did, just to see her light up with happiness. He wanted for her to say it back to him, to say that in some small way she loved him too. That was what he wanted. And it wasn’t possible. It would never be.

He paused and took a deep breath. “Dany’s brilliant, Sam. Just brilliant. But I still can’t find it in me to actually tell her.”

“Tell me what?” came a quiet voice from the doorway, and Jon spun around.

His phone flew out of his hand and clattered onto the floor between them. “Jon?” said Sam’s disembodied voice, and Jon actually wished he could disappear, just sink down into the carpeted floor and disappear. Dany stared at him, her face utterly expressionless.

“Uh…” What on earth could he possibly say, possibly do to negate whatever she might have heard? “I was—I was talking to Sam, Dany, that’s all. I—”

“No. I heard you.” The coolness in her voice was almost frightening. Dany stared at him evenly. “What do you want to tell me?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Jon said, almost pleading. “I promise Dany, it’s nothing.”

“It’s not,” she said, with sudden fierceness. “I know it’s not.”

“It’s just—”

“Just what?”

“I think,” Jon burst out, like it was a disease that was making him do it, something other than himself— “I think… _fuck it,_ I know, Dany, I know that I’m in love with you.”

Her blue eyes blazed, and for a moment she stood so still that she might have been carved out of stone. Then she crossed the floor so furiously that he expected her to come right up to him and slap him across the face. It was what he deserved, after all. It was all he could hope for.

Instead, Dany almost violently took Jon’s face in her hands, and leaned up, and kissed him. His head spun, and then he wasn’t thinking of anything anymore. She didn’t smell the way he’d expected her to smell. She smelled like champagne, and ashes, and forgetting the rules and the way things were supposed to be. _She must have heard_ , Jon thought very distantly, _a lot more than she should have. She must have._

But he couldn’t find it in him just then to care.

From outside he heard Robb roaring, “Oi! Oi, it’s midnight? Did we miss the countdown? Where’s my wife?” A chorus of laughter and ribbing from the other men around him. “What d’you mean, you’ve lost her already?” someone shouted at him, and Robb gave an answering bark of laughter.

Jon knew he should stop. But he couldn’t.

 

 

**Renly – 11:50 PM**

“Margaery, it’s Grandmother,” Loras hissed, darting forward and giving his sister a gentle shove of warning.

Olenna Tyrell approached their corner of the room, holding a glass of white wine and wearing a terrifying expression. Renly recognised her without having to be introduced—anyone who was anyone in British political circles knew the notorious matriarch of the Tyrell family. She was rumoured to have once told Prince Philip to get a personality transplant; it was also said she was on a first-name basis with the Queen and that when she let loose with her famous barbed tongue, Margaret Thatcher had taken notes. One look at her—and a subsequent look at the expression on Loras’s face—told Renly with no uncertain doubt that he would to have to win Olenna’s blessing _and_ reveal all his intentions with her grandson before he and Loras would be permitted to carry on.

Pulling back from where she had been enthusiastically wrapped around the redheaded girl, Loras’s sister beamed at her grandmother. “Grandmother, you remember Sansa Stark,” she said brightly. She couldn’t wipe the slightly daffy expression off her face, though. Sansa was wearing an identical one; all told, it was pretty cute. Renly wondered if he and Loras looked as stupid in love as these two did.

“Oh,” said Olenna clearly, peering up at the two of them, “she’s the girl you got that pussy.”

Sansa made a strangled sound.

Margaery had turned bright pink, the confident gleam in her eye momentarily shaken. “ _Grandmother_! I didn’t—I mean, I gave her one of Marina’s kittens.” She took a deep breath. “That’s all,” she said sweetly.

Olenna looked at Sansa rather critically. “That’s quite the step, you know. Very serious stuff. Don’t go thinking that Margaery would do that for just anyone.” Both of the girls looked extremely flustered as this point; Renly glanced over at Loras, who smirked back, looking rather as if he was struggling with every ounce of his being not to laugh.

“It means she cares about you,” Olenna added rather kindly to Sansa, and ruined the effect by waving the two of them off like a pair of errant pets. “Well, off with you, then. That’s all—go!” The girls exchanged rather stunned looks, but did as they were told and went off with their heads pressed together, speaking quickly under their breath and holding hands.

Then Loras’s grandmother turned her head like a hunting bird to hone in on Renly, and he had a moment of acute sympathy for Sansa Stark. For a moment he could have sworn his blood actually ran cold. “Mr Prime Minister,” she said, tipping her silvery head to the side and gazing at him. “Well, fancy having you in my house on New Year’s Eve.”

“You have a beautiful home,” he said politely.

“I know, isn’t it?” she responded, sounding matter-of-fact. “And you _are_ charming, aren’t you? That’s what everybody told me. They said you were a smooth talker, and I can see that it’s true. I’ve a few things to say to you about that, believe me.”

He managed a weak smile, and suddenly caught sight of the changing time, ticking away on the great diamond-crusted clock on the wall behind her. The time read two minutes to twelve. Although it was rude he couldn’t help looking, and he suddenly felt his breath come up short.

Loras’s grandmother noticed, of course. With sharp eyes, she sent a wry look around the room, and then leaned up conspiratorially to Renly. “But I suppose it could wait, given the occasion. No one’s looking, young man,” she said, _sotto voce_. “You can go ahead and kiss my grandson at midnight. I’ll cover for you.”

Now it was Renly’s turn to choke. “Lady Tyrell…”

“I know that’s what you want to do,” she said, raising an eyebrow at him. “That’s why you came, isn’t it? It certainly wasn’t to compliment an old woman on her house.” She stared at him, and then extended one withered finger to rest lightly on the breast of his suit jacket. “But I will have you know that if you break his heart, Mr Prime Minister, I _will_ break you.”

Weren’t lines like that supposed to be dreadfully cheesy when used in real life? But coming from this hunched-over old woman who scarcely came up to Renly’s chin, it wasn’t cheesy. Renly could not have been more terrified if Al Pacino himself had come to the party and threatened him in person. He paled. “Why thank you, Lady Tyrell. I—I promise I won’t. And I would be more than happy to listen to all your thoughts on my administration, after midnight—or rather, after… well, after…”

She waved him away. “Oh, just go snog him.”

Loras came around and grabbed both Renly’s hands gleefully, and pulled him away.

In what seemed like no time at all, everyone was counting down to midnight. And when midnight struck, Renly did exactly what Olenna Tyrell had told him to do. He swung Loras Tyrell around into a perfect, Old Hollywood swoon, and then he kissed him.

 

 

**Tyrion – 11:50 PM**

“Shae!” he said loudly. Everyone was still staring at him.

“I know I don’t know you very well. I know that I’m just a short, alcoholic Englishman, and you’re a gorgeous, intelligent Frenchwoman. You probably could do loads better than me but it’s New Year’s, and in the spirit of this holiday, I’ve got a few questions to ask you. One, will you be my New Year’s kiss?” He took a deep breath. “And, two… will you go on a date with me?”

Shae was staring at him without saying anything.

“A proper, sit-down date. On me.”

At last, she smiled. She was giving him that look, that look that meant he was a bloody damn fool—but he knew from experience, that this look was a good thing.

“All right,” she said. “Yes. To both questions.”

“ _Santé_!” said a man near the door, grinning broadly. Everyone else started lifting their glasses to toast… well, Tyrion, apparently. Love. The holiday spirit. Second chances. Even Shae’s brother was smiling, albeit a bit grudgingly.

She swooped down on Tyrion, picked him up, and set him on the bar. Then she poured them matching glasses of wine as the countdown to midnight began, they drank, and it was on the bar of a French restaurant in the middle of the French seaboard, that Tyrion and Shae had their New Year’s kiss.

 

 

**Ned - midnight**

When Robert Baratheon first took the stage, he spent at least a good twenty minutes strutting up and down the tiny platform in the middle of Ned’s living room as if it were the O2 stadium, grinning and mugging for photos, roaring cheeky jokes at his audience and fielding their good-natured ribbing and song requests. _Say what you like about Robert_ , Ned thought admiringly, _he still knows how to work an audience_. Finally, just before midnight, Robert wrapped his hands around the microphone, made a few phallic gestures that had people covering their children’s eyes (Ned winced; this was supposed to be a _family_ party) and started to sing.

His voice was still good—and by some New Year’s magic, everything about the song he chose was absolutely perfect. All around the room, couples were swaying back and forth. So it was to the tune of “Lyanna Blue Eyes” that Ned kissed his beautiful, perfect wife at some point vaguely around midnight, because in the excitement and all the buildup, counting down had gotten lost in the mix. (Not that anybody minded much.)

Robert finished his song, checked his watch, and whooped. “Well, we missed the whole bloody countdown! It’s a brand new year! Happy New Year, everyone!” he yelled. He turned to direct the band behind him theatrically, and then launched into a torch-song rendition of Auld Lang Syne.

Ned held Cat tight, humming along off-key. She wouldn’t mind; if she did, she would tolerate him. She always did. “I love you, Cat,” he said in her ear, breathing in her familiar scent. Another year gone by spent happily with his wife and their family—and it had been a wonderful year. He had no doubt that the next would be just as good.

She snuggled tightly into him with a smile that he could sense as well as see. Clearly, she felt the same way. “I love you too, Ned darling. I love you so very much.”

 

 

**Sansa - midnight**

Her midnight kiss was perfect, sublime, heavenly, divine. Margaery tasted like champagne and strawberries and promises that Sansa knew, for once, would be kept.

After the strike of midnight, just as everyone was singing to Auld Lang Syne, Sansa wrapped her arms around Margaery’s neck and swayed back and forth. “Happy New Year,” she murmured, and pressed her forehead against Margaery’s, touching noses. Instead of responding with words Margaery closed the distance between them and kissed her again, tasting sweeter than anything Sansa could remember.

Then the music changed, and Sansa couldn’t restrain herself. She pulled away, catching her breath (of course Margaery was an amazing kisser, because of _course_ ), and burst out, “It’s our song!” It was true. Charli XCX was playing over the sound system, the unmistakable electronic bounce of “Black Roses” filling the room.

Margaery took a huge breath as if she was going to say something, but then merely broke into a grin, nodding. Gazing at her best friend, Sansa held back from smiling too, but only just. “So…”

“Loras and I picked out all the music months ago. It was quite the project.” Margaery shrugged, glancing at Sansa with the coy look she got when she wanted compliments.

Sansa started to laugh. _Really?_ “Wait, so… you were going to play this even if I wasn’t coming? What exactly were you planning to do if I hadn’t made it?”

Margaery began to laugh too, breaking that faux-demure expression. “Sitting in the corner crying into my drink with Loras, probably. Both of us fully expected to be alone tonight, I’ll have you know.” She peered over Sansa’s shoulder, giving her brother a little wave with the tips of her fingers. “And both of us,” she added sweetly, “were very happy to be disappointed in those expectations.”

Sansa turned too, to see Loras and the Prime Minister swaying back and forth as if slow dancing, which all told really wasn’t right for the music—but they did look quite cute while doing it.

“Well, I have to say, the music here is a lot better than what I would have been listening to at Winterfell.” Sansa smiled and then added wryly, “Your brother was right. The Prime Minister _is_ really fit.”

Margaery turned back to her, all seriousness. “True. Not as fit as you, though.”

She laughed. “Oh, are we really going to play that game, Margaery?”

Out of the corner of her eye Sansa caught sight of Arya and Gendry, who had gallantly dropped Sansa off so she could have her big scene while they went off to find parking. Now they snagged flutes of champagne off a passing tray before cheers-ing each other, whooping, downing their drinks, and then pressing together for a very hot-and-heavy kiss. _Well, look at that._ Gendry actually lifted Arya off the ground, so that only her toes were skimming the floor. It looked as if they’d made up from their heated clash in the car, and then some—and if the two of them hadn’t already officially become an item, Sansa would be willing to bet good money that it would happen _very_ soon.

Sansa grinned. It looked like she wasn’t the only Stark who’d gotten a New Year’s kiss with her best friend tonight, and the thought made her exceedingly happy.

“Come on, Margaery,” she said with a feeling of pure absolute satisfaction, pulling the other girl into the centre of the room by the hand. “Shall we? 

“Absolutely,” Marg purred, and they swept onto the dance floor to dance the night away.

 

 

**Brienne - midnight**

Not that it really mattered when everything was hazy and golden and putting her in an excellent mood, but Brienne was ultimately relieved that there wasn’t a long countdown to the New Year. That meant no pressure, no ultimate disappointment when she had no one to kiss… again. She and Jaime had ostensibly come here so that they wouldn’t end up being stuck with no one else to kiss but one another, right?

But she had spent the entire time here joined at the hip with Jaime, drinking to one-up each other and passing out Christmas crackers and dancing like idiots. She hadn’t even taken a second look at the men at the party—although there didn’t seem to be any shortage of good-looking ones—and Jaime hadn’t detached himself from her hip long enough to chat up any women. All around them now, couples were kissing. Brienne caught sight of Catelyn Stark with her arms wrapped around her tall handsome husband, making out like teenagers in the middle of the crowd.

Jaime looked at her, tipped back the contents of his glass, and grinned. “Feeling inspired?” he said, cocking his head to indicate everyone around them.

She let out a short laugh and rolled her eyes. “Not a chance, Lannister.”

“Really? You don’t want to give it a go?” He tried to step closer and wobbled uncertainly on his feet. She put out two hands to steady him, on his shoulders.

“Ahh, I knew it,” he said triumphantly, slurring a little, and before she could dissuade him he leaned in and made them just another one of the couples sharing a New Year’s kiss all around the room.

He was a remarkably good kisser. Brienne stiffened at first, but then, God help her, she kissed back. A moment passed—all right, to be perfectly fair, it was more than a few moments, was Brienne supposed to be held accountable for these little details when she’d been drinking really excellent scotch for three hours straight?—before she decided that was enough. On principle. Because it really _had_ felt… nice. Very nice, in fact.

“Get off, you’re scratchy,” she said, pushing Jaime away with the flat of her hand on his face like a dog.

“You like it,” he insisted, still moving a bit unsteadily from foot to foot.

“ _No_ , I—Well, yes, actually, I do,” she said, and pulled him closer for another kiss. She was taller than him, especially in her heels. It was nice. He had to lean up to meet her, and she imagined he was standing on his tiptoes. The thought made her laugh.

“I was wrong about you, Lannister,” Brienne said at last, thoughtfully. Her head was foggy in the best way.

“Well I was _right_ about you, wench,” he slurred, grinning at her with bright eyes. She gave him a not-so-gentle smack upside the head and he ducked belatedly, grinning even wider. “Brienne, Brienne. Because that’s your name, not ‘wench’. ‘Wench’ is degrading. I ought to be ashamed,” he added, making a momentary show of how ashamed he was. Then Jaime cleared his throat, and met her eyes pointedly as if to prove his point. “You really _are_ an excellent drinking companion.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Something passed between them, unspoken. Then Jaime grinned and cleared his throat, and raised his empty glass. “Another?”

Before she could answer, he’d swiped her glass and headed off for the refreshments table, ducking around people who were crowding into the living room to hear Robert Baratheon play.

Well, that was something, wasn’t it?

**Stannis - midnight**

At midnight, Stannis was standing next to Davos. Shireen, exuberantly dancing to Robert’s song alongside Rickon, turned around and waved her hands to indicate Rickon and herself, shouting, “Daddy! This is our song! This is our favorite song!” Then, when she saw Davos and Stannis standing together, Stannis’s hand resting on Davos’ shoulder, her face actually lit up. She looked so incredibly happy that Stannis felt overjoyed as well.

 _This_ , he thought with a sense of completion, _is how things ought to be. Always._ Davos at his side, the two of them watching Shireen living happily in front of them.

Then, as soon as Robert finished “Lyanna Blue Eyes” and his rendition of Auld Lang Syne, the party really got into full swing. Some people had brought armloads of Christmas crackers and everyone decided to start pulling them, unleashing an unholy torrent of cracking noises all over the house. Stannis’s brother ( _God save us all_ ) stayed on stage, wailing his way through a series of War Hammer classics, and then he started doing covers. But Robert was surprisingly good live, as he had always been, and with a bit more to drink Stannis found he didn’t mind it half as much as he’d expected. Catelyn and her husband Ned were dancing, Shireen and Rickon were dancing, and all around Stannis and Davos people were laughing, dancing, singing, spending time with the people they loved, with their friends or making new friends.

It was definitely the best New Year’s Stannis had ever had.

 

 

 


	8. New Year's Day

#  _New Year’s Day_

 

 

 **Margaery**  

She woke up next to Sansa, curled around one another like puppies snuggled close in a warm bed. _Oh_ , she thought, surprised for an instant—and then the memory of what had happened last night hit her. For a moment Margaery felt so blindingly happy that it was hard to imagine that anyone, anywhere had ever felt happier than this.

“Good morning,” she whispered to the girl sleeping beside her, and her heart actually tugged to see how Sansa stirred and yawned. She stifled her fond smile in her palm, watching. “Good _mor_ ning.”

Sansa opened her eyes and smiled back, a bit blearily. Her autumn-coloured hair was messy and she was still wearing last night’s mascara, but she looked beautiful. _And now she’s actually mine._ Remembering the victory of last night and her own unbridled happiness at finally getting the girl she’d wanted for so long, Margaery’s heart leapt and she pounced on Sansa, pressing kisses all over.

“Good morning—good morning—good morning—”

“Oh my god, Margaery,” Sansa laughed, but almost immediately rolled onto her side to let Marg closer. Margaery put one possessive hand on her cheek, and then they were kissing, and it was just as good as last night and the time before. It was, if possible, even _better_.

Finally Margaery pulled away, releasing a tiny contented sigh as she leaned back on her elbow to face Sansa. Both of them were dressed in nothing but Margaery’s ratty old concert tees and knickers, having stumbled to bed just past 4 AM; Marg pushed the hair behind her ear, closing her eyes for a moment as she let the memories of last night flood her.

Every memory was more insane than the last. They had danced for hours after midnight, rolling in the sonic boom created by Willas and his fellow DJs; as the adults yawned, retiring after 2 or 3 AM, leaving the party or going upstairs to the comfort of their bedrooms and their earplugs (per the family’s special once-yearly agreement), the young ones stayed dancing. At just gone 4 AM, everyone still awake—Willas’s friends, Loras and the Prime Minister and a handful of Loras’s younger friends, Tyene and her siblings, Sansa’s little sister and her fit boyfriend—had decided to jump in the underground pool. At _that_ point, however, Margaery and Sansa had made the very auspicious decision to retreat to Margaery’s bedroom.

“Last night was—amazing,” she said finally, gazing at Sansa with a heavy, warm feeling in her chest.

“It was,” Sansa agreed. She yawned again, stretching, then looked back at Margaery with a soft snort of amusement. “Although I’m not sure that your decision to put the Prime Minister on Loras’s shoulders and telling them to play chicken in the pool was… exactly the best decision you’ve ever made.”

Margaery let out a throaty laugh just at the memory of the look on the Prime Minister’s face—not to mention the look on her brother’s. “What? They loved it.”

“Still.” Sansa was trying to hold back giggles, she could tell. “It wasn’t very… dignified. Or Prime Minister-y.”

“Well, excuse me. If we’re talking about poor judgment, I’ll remind you that _I_ wasn’t the one who couldn’t figure out my best friend was keen on me for months and months,” Margaery responded, rolling her eyes, but she tempered it with a smile and a gentle stroke of Sansa’s hair. “I don’t mean it. You’re so gorgeous, you know that?” _And sweet, and genuine, and generally amazing…_

“So are you,” Sansa responded, rolling her eyes back.

“And you’re so smart,” Margaery continued, unable to stop herself from listing more of Sansa’s fine points. _It’s hard_ , she thought rather sappily, _when there are so many of them_.

Sansa wrinkled her nose. “I thought you just said I was stupid.”

“Did I _say_ stupid? No, I think ‘clueless’ would be a better description. Or maybe ‘adorably naïve’, and ‘blind to what was basically staring you in the face for over a year.” Marg shrugged to show that she was teasing, then added with a genuine, crooked smile, “But I love that about you.”

The corners of Sansa’s eyes crinkled as she smiled. “Oh, Marg. I love _you_.”

A mere second later Sansa realised what she’d said and her eyes went wide. She covered her mouth with one hand and sat up bolt upright in bed, blushing wildly. It would have been rather funny, Margaery thought, slightly stunned, if Sansa hadn’t happened to accidentally say… _those_ particular words.

“What was that?” Margaery inquired delicately, sitting up slowly. She told herself that she was being careful because it was important not to scare Sansa off the topic—but the truth was that her own heart was hammering so hard with disbelief and… something else… that she felt very nearly dizzy.

“I… nothing.” Sansa looked mortified.

“No, you can’t take it back!” Margaery blurted out, forgetting her resolution to remain calm. _Did she actually just say that she loved me? Did she?_

Sansa, her face as red as a pomegranate, took a very deep breath and then nodded with admirable bravery. “Right. Look, I…I’m no good at this. I don’t know when you’re supposed to say these things—or even _if_ you’re supposed to say them. But I really like you, Margaery. Maybe love is too strong a word right now.” She paused to lock eyes with Margaery, her blue ones slightly widened and questioning and full of hope, before admitting, “But you and me, together… Marg, it’s _all_ I thought about over the holiday.”

Margaery reminded herself to stay composed. “You know, I was worried you’d freak out about what happened between us,” she said honestly, scanning Sansa’s face.

“Well, I _did_ ,” admitted Sansa, nervously pulling the hem of her Arctic Monkeys tee shirt over both thumbs and pressing it onto the bed in one taut line. “But I got to thinking, and then I realised… it was a _good_ sort of freak-out. I mean it was strange to think about being with you in a way that was more than just friends. But it made sense, too.” She paused, tilting her head to the side almost shyly. “It felt… right.”

Margaery had the most triumphant feeling, coupled with genuine happiness. “Does it still feel right, Sansa?” she asked softly.

Sansa nodded slowly, linking her fingers through Margaery’s, and let out a slightly shaky laugh. “Yeah, it does. It really does.”

It was as if Margaery’s heart had sprouted wings, and they were fluttering in her chest. She couldn’t stop smiling, but Sansa was still looking at her hesitantly. “You—you do feel the same way, don’t you?”

 _Oh, Sans, you can be so heartbreakingly naïve._ “Are you serious?” Margaery asked, grabbing Sansa’s hands. “Come here,” she demanded, motioning for Sansa to sit closer facing her. But her concentration broke when she saw the other girl smiling rather knowingly.

“You’re about to use your best friend voice,” Sansa told her.

“My… what?” Marg paused, taking in the unusually sly look on Sansa’s face. That sort of Margaery-like expression was not often seen on Sansa, if ever. “That’s an actual thing?”

“Hel _lo_ , yes it is! You used it on me when you told me about possibly not being able to hang out as much during reading week, or when we’d first met and you sat me down to say that Joffrey was a complete kn—”

“Right, right, I’ve got it.” Margaery laughed, her fingers tracing absent-minded circles on Sansa’s outstretched palms. She took a deep breath. “See, Sansa, here’s the thing. I had never really planned on us just being… _friends_.”

Sansa’s mouth dropped open. “Margaery… Are you joking?”

Margaery _never_ blushed, but somehow she was blushing now. “Actually, no.” She bit her lip, hoping that her confession came out as charmingly creepy as opposed to predatory. “See, when I first saw you, I thought you were the fittest girl I’d ever seen. But then we got to talking, and—you know, just ended up becoming friends. Really, _really_ good friends.”

“Marg, that was over a year ago!” Sansa readjusted herself on the bed and stared at Margaery sitting very straight, as if to make a point of her disbelief. It was awfully cute.

“Believe me, I know!” Margaery was caught between feeling amused and guilty. “It’s just that—Sans, you _did_ seem straighter than straight, which usually isn’t a problem… But you’d also just broken up with that shitty ex of yours, and it seemed unfair to come onto you, then.” She shrugged. “You seemed really vulnerable. Then we got to be friends and everything has just been so… well, you know. Generally amazing,” she finished, at the same time that Sansa blurted out, “Incredible.” They stared at each other and then both let out slightly embarrassed yet completely understanding laughs.

“So why didn’t you ever do anything? It’s not like you’re…well, _me_. You could have made a move at any time, and you just… didn’t?” Sansa was looking at her with a mixture of disbelief and amusement.

“I really like being your best friend,” Margaery said almost tenderly, but very truthfully. God, this was getting nearly as bad as _EastEnders_ … but it was all true! That was the craziest bit. “I suppose I was afraid of losing that if I took things any further. And, Sansa, now that we have… I truly hope it doesn’t change anything.” 

She paused, carefully gauging her best friend’s reaction. This was the crucial moment. Had she overplayed it? Had she come on too strong? Had she scared Sansa off? Had she been too emotional, too urgent, let too much of her raw feeling colour her voice?

But Sansa was smiling, shaking her head… and it looked overall positive. “Margaery Tyrell,” she said slowly, “you are devious. Do you know that?”

Margaery could only smile in response (not that she could dispute what Sansa had just said, anyhow). There was a weighted pause, and then Sansa gently clasped Margaery’s hand in hers, gazing at Margaery intently. “So, is this… are _we_ a thing? Would you like to be?”

“YES—I mean yes, don’t you?” Margaery paused, biting her lip in pretend deliberation. “I mean, the whole driving across London on New Year’s Eve thing could be misinterpreted—so I just thought I’d double check to make sure you really _do_ fancy me...”

Sansa broke into a gigantic smile. “Yes, you idiot. Yes, I do.”

Margaery had been wrong, before. She was happier now than she’d ever been in her entire life—this moment, right now. She jumped off the bed to Sansa’s delighted intake of breath and got down on one knee, reaching for the other girl’s hand with a dramatic flourish. “Sansa?” She paused, relishing the terrified yet delighted look on her best friend’s face. “Will you… go to brunch with me?"

Sansa let out an enormous, comical sigh of relief, and beamed brightly. “Margaery, I thought you’d never ask.”

“Brilliant.” Margaery got to her feet and leaned over to kiss Sansa hard on the mouth. “Because I know this restaurant that serves the most delicious Turkish food, and I couldn’t think of a better place to eat my way through this hangover,” Sansa groaned understandingly, “and to announce via Instagram that I’ve got a gorgeous new leading lady in my life.”

“That sounds,” Sansa said with a contented sigh, reaching her arms around Margaery’s waist and pulling Marg tight, “absolutely amazing. I think that dating you is going to be even more fun than being your best friend.”

Margaery actually began blushing. No mincing words, then—Sansa, with her blunt naïveté, had gotten straight to the heart of the matter.

“All right, _girlfriend_ ,” she declared, leaning on the last word, savouring both the way the word felt in her mouth and the brilliant smile it brought to Sansa’s face as Sansa gazed up at her, looking just as happy as Margaery felt.

 

 

**Jaime**

Jaime woke up with a pounding headache, a sore back, and absolutely no idea where he was. He sat up slowly, glancing in surprise at his hand to find that he was clutching an unpulled Christmas cracker. Looking about, Jaime noticed a gigantic Christmas tree, a fireplace… slowly rotating his neck, he realised he was in an imposingly large old room with rafters crossing the ceiling and the unmistakable detritus of last night’s party everywhere. Oh, of course, right— _now_ he remembered where he was.

He was on the floor of the living room of the Stark family home, because last night had been Catelyn Stark’s party. The memories flooding back to him all at once, Jaime suddenly recalled the veritable adventure he’d had getting here. The mad dash across London. The scotch… and then more scotch. _And that midnight kiss_. Jaime sat up abruptly, looking around him, and felt something click in his chest when he saw that on the sofa alongside him was none other than Brienne Tarth, sleeping peacefully with bits of tinsel in her hair and a slightly torn crown from a Christmas cracker draped across her head. _Ah, yes._ He loosened his tie and stretched, yawning widely, before turning back to her.

She looked rather like a newly hatched baby bird fresh out of the egg, what with all that short downy blonde hair ruffled on her head. _Rather cute, actually._ He delicately reached out and removed the torn paper crown from her head, lifting it between his thumb and forefinger. Brienne yawned heavily and turned onto her side without cracking open an eye.

Suddenly Jaime remembered something from last night. Had it actually happened, or had he dreamed it? He turned away to whip out his mobile and thumb through his messages—and Jaime’s face lit up in an unrestrained smile when he saw the message that had made him giddy with excitement the previous night.

Tyrion had texted him at the stroke of midnight: **Happy New Year’s!** It was accompanied by a selfie of Tyrion, beaming alongside a dark-haired woman who was smiling more reservedly but with unmistakable happiness in her eyes. Tyrion looked happier than Jaime remembered seeing him since Tysha, and also sober. Jaime was an excellent judge of all Tyrion’s stages of sobriety. So this was good—it was very good, indeed.

Suddenly feeling lighter than air, rather as if anything were possible, Jaime leaned over the sofa cushions and gave a Brienne a gentle nudge. His brother was speaking to him again, he’d had a brilliant New Year’s, and it was a bright and sunny morning. He needed someone with whom to share his good mood. “Wench. Wake up.”

Brienne made a sound of protest. Then she opened her eyes, and they went wide with surprise—no doubt forgetting where she was, as he had done—before focusing on Jaime. “Oh. It’s _you_.”

He got to his feet and winced at the rush of blood to his head. _Bloody hell, was he hung over!_ Brienne was staring at him with slightly narrowed eyes, having now raised herself onto one elbow. She looked as if she was deciding to kick him or make a run for it.

“None of that,” he told her, rubbing his temples. “We’re friends now, remember?”

She looked dubiously at him for a moment but then, incredibly, her face cracked into a smile. “Right, we—scotch, and the car, and then we—” She broke off suddenly, clearly remembering, and Jaime almost had to stifle a laugh at the look on her face. “Kissed,” he finished helpfully.

She was looking at him warily, as if expecting him to burst out laughing or say it had all been a practical joke. _Christ, Tarth, you really weren’t kidding when you said life hadn’t been easy for you. What the hell happened to make you doubt that someone might just kiss you because he wanted to?_ His chest squeezed again, almost uncomfortably.

But all Jaime ended up saying was, “Ow,” as he rubbed his head, in a friendly sort of way that said, _Christ, we were knackered last night, weren’t we?_ But he was also careful to smile in a way that said, _It wasn’t half bad though, eh?_

“Ow,” Brienne agreed after a few moments, smiling hesitantly back at him.

God help him, Jaime was enjoying this. He _liked_ being nice to her, maybe even better than he liked arguing with her. Maybe that was because so much of the essential tension still existed—she still sort of looked at him the same way, regardless. “My lady,” he said with a gallant air, extending his hand to help Brienne up off the sofa.

“Oh, shut up.” She did accept his hand as she sat up slowly, but almost immediately put her own hand to her head and winced. “Oh, _fuck_.”

“I know,” Jaime said, sympathetically. “Maybe we ought to go see about finding some coffee, eh?”

“Coffee,” said Brienne, with a slow nod. “Yes. That sounds absolutely perfect.”

 

 

 **Catelyn**  

She stumbled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, to find her husband already standing over the gas range making French toast with help from Bran. In the kitchen were a motley assortment of people including a very happy-looking Rickon and a very hung-over looking Robb, Catelyn’s great-uncle Brynden and Edmure, and her two professors, Jaime and Brienne, who were looking decidedly more friendly than usual over their steaming mugs of coffee.

“Happy New Year’s!” Cat said to everyone, as brightly as she could muster with a slightly pounding head. She was greeted with a bunch of bleary, obviously hung-over smiles (save the children, of course). Jaime and Brienne gave her bright, conspiratorial smiles and turned back to the conversation they were having; Brienne said something, delivering it with a satisfied half-smile as she took a sip of coffee, and Jaime threw back his handsome head and laughed. Next to them at the table, Robb was unloading his woes onto his youngest brother, cradling his mug of coffee like a dying man. “I’m telling you, Rick, I’m never drinking that much again… But I hear you had some luck with your girl, eh? Let’s hear it, then…”

Stifling her smile, Catelyn turned away and went up to greet her husband. “Hullo,” she said into his neck, hugging him from behind. He turned to smile at her, pressing a kiss to her cheek before waving his spatula in a distracted sort of way, and she drifted off to the seating by the window, waiting for him to come join her once he’d finished cooking. She reached into her robe pocket for her mobile, thumbing through her messages to make certain she had tabs on on all her children.

Sansa had sent her a text just past midnight to say that she and Arya would be sleeping over at the Tyrells’ house in London. Usually such late notice would have worried Catelyn, but last night had been a special occasion. It was New Year’s, after all—and Catelyn would have forgone a lot of her usual rules if it meant making her children happy on such a special a day. **_Did everything go well?_** she’d texted her daughter in response.

Sansa’s reply had been pretty to the point. **_Yes!! :D_** And then, **_love you, Mum!!!_**

Presently Ned ambled over, smiling over the plate of French toast he handed her. Catelyn set it on the windowsill and looped her arms around his neck, leaning up to greet him with a proper kiss… and then another. “I’ve just been reading my texts from Sansa,” she explained after a moment, sliding back down onto the bench and turning to retrieve her breakfast. “She and Arya are still at the Tyrells’, they both slept over.”

Ned nodded and smiled, settling onto the wooden bench beside her. Then he frowned, obviously struggling with a thought. “Cat, that big speech Sansa gave last night, and all that…” He paused for a long time, seeming to turn the words over before he said them. “Does that mean Sansa’s gay now?”

Catelyn let out a careful breath, taking a bite of French toast. “Well, dear, I don’t know. You know people don’t really label their sexuality these days. I suppose you’d have to ask Sansa herself if you really want to know.”

“Hmm,” said Ned, and took a long sip of his coffee. “I suppose so.” Then he furrowed his brow even more deeply. Catelyn thought she could practically see the wheels turning in his head. “But does that mean that Sansa is dating her friend? The Tyrell girl?”

Catelyn smiled. “Yes, I think so, darling.”

Ned nodded contemplatively. He reached for Catelyn’s fork to nick a piece of French toast, and chewed for a long time; then he took another bite. “Good,” he said at last.

“Good?” Cat was surprised in spite of herself—not that Ned was a bigot by any means, but he was resistant to change in all forms. She’d expected a bit more confusion on his part. “Really, darling?”

Ned nodded firmly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I think she deserves to be happy.”

Catelyn set down her coffee and regarded her husband for a minute: Ned, the love of her life, the man who had been by her side for nearly thirty years and who, if this life was good to her, would continue to be by her side for countless more.

“I love you,” she told him firmly, reaching out to clasp his enormous hand in her own.

He raised his head, eyes twinkling as he smiled. “Not that you need _any_ reminding, darling—but I love you, too.”

She sighed and tipped her head against his, and they went on sharing their French toast and drinking coffee in the bright morning light. It was absolutely everything Catelyn could have wanted of her New Year’s Day… nothing more, and nothing less.

 

 

 


	9. A Few Weeks Later

#  _A Few Weeks Later_

 

 

 **Jon**

It would’ve been stupid of him to expect anything more, really, even as he tried to keep certain recent events out of mind. Jon found himself lingering over his latte too long, checking his watch and toying with his phone instead of finishing his drink or even opening his laptop to start a few of his commissions: anything to keep him occupied before Dany arrived. That probably would’ve helped if he hadn’t tried to start his pieces several times already, only to find that he could hardly concentrate or taste his coffee when he kept remembering the soft wave of Dany’s hair gathered carelessly over her right shoulder, or the asymmetrical curl her eyelashes exhibited without mascara, the way she’d looked several mornings at Winterfell. It was growing impossible to ignore the physical ache Jon’s chest developed whenever he thought of Dany, or Robb. It was even worse today, the first time he’d be seeing Dany since New Year’s. 

But when she’d texted him last week asking to meet up and talk, there was no chance in hell that Jon would have said no, even if he had no idea how this meeting might turn out.

A few minutes elapsed, then suddenly there she was—looming up in the doorway of the coffee shop, just as beautiful as the day he first saw her. Dany’s white-blond hair was braided loosely over her shoulder, and she was dressed in her usual effortless layers of knit clothing. Glancing up, Jon hoped his smile looked genuine enough even though he was suddenly short of breath. Even now, after all that’d happened and how wrong it should feel, Dany still had that effect on him. Perhaps she always would.

“Hey,” Dany said, smiling a bit tiredly as she came up, pulling out the chair opposite Jon before he could stand to get it for her. She slung her bag down and slid into the chair. Jon noticed she was wearing the silver dragon necklace he’d helped Robb pick out for her ages ago.  

“Hi,” Jon replied, suddenly shy. He took in her face, her eyes—he hadn’t seen her since New Year’s, and yet she was exactly as he remembered. “W—would you like something to drink? I could absolutely get you something, they—”

She hesitated, shifting in her seat. “I… actually won’t be staying that long,” Dany said, her blue eyes locked on his. “Is that all right?”

Jon had to fight the sinking feeling of disappointment in his stomach.  _Yes, for us both._ “Oh—yeah, of course. Their flat whites are amazing, but if you’re that busy…”

Dany exhaled softly and then, to his surprise, reached out to take both of his hands in hers. Months ago he would’ve committed the feeling of her hands to memory, knowing that the second he felt them gone they would be again entwined in Robb’s where they belonged. But now all Jon could notice was how cold they were. “Look, Jon—I don’t think I can get through the day if we don’t talk about what happened at New Year’s.”

He tore his focus away from their hands, feeling ill in spite of everything. Surely he should’ve seen this coming? But Jon hadn’t anticipated that the actual conversation would make him feel so utterly sick to his stomach.

“Are you sure you don’t want any coffee?” he hedged.

Dany let out an embarrassed rush of breath, glancing down at the table. “No, ah—I actually had a lot before I came. I’ve just worked a double shift, and—”

“Oh, right, of course.” Jon could have kicked himself for not remembering. She’d put it in her message that she’d be coming straight from the hospital, how could he have forgotten?

“I mean, I’m sure what they’ve got here is loads better than the instant bollocks we get in the paramedic lounge, but—”

“No, I’m sorry, it was stupid of me to ask.” Jon shut his eyes briefly.  _Pathetic, on top of everything else_. Would he ever stop being such an idiot, always saying the wrong thing at the wrong time?

“Jon, no,” Dany insisted, her hands slightly tightening their grip on his. Looking into her eyes, Jon knew there was no way she would let him avoid the conversation they were supposed to have, whether it happened now or in months to come. Her expression was steady, intense. “Your concern for me is understandable.”

The way she said it said everything. It spoke volumes, and Jon knew then how things were going to be.

Pursing his lips, Jon tore his gaze from her almost childishly, focusing on the ‘open’ sign of the door behind them. Dany’s pity felt awful, but at the same time it was all he could expect. “How is it  _understandable_  when we both know that you’re married to my cousin?” he said in a low voice.

Her eyes flashed. “I don’t know,” she replied curtly, and there was a tense, almost angry silence at the table. Finally, Jon felt the words coming up in his throat before he could stop them.

“Dany—Dany, look, I have to tell you that I’m really sorry about what happened that night. I feel I’ve made a real fool of myself, and all I can do is apologise.” Jon took a deep breath. “You weren’t supposed to overhear what I was saying to my friend on the phone, and I never meant to get in the way of your and Robb’s relationship.”

There was a long pause—then Dany sighed almost harshly. She looked pained. “Oh,  _Jon_. I should be the one apologising. I’m the one who kissed you, and… it was wrong. I shouldn’t have done it. It wasn’t fair to you, me, or Robb.”

There was a lump in his throat as big as all the things Jon wasn’t saying. All he could do was listen.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” she continued, “but I heard those things you were saying, and… I wanted to.” He raised his eyes, hardly daring to hope as she slowly went on. “I feel like it had to happen at least once.”

“What do you mean?” Jon felt stunned, but somehow he wasn’t surprised. When he’d kissed Dany that night, even as fleeting as it had been, Jon hadn’t felt that Dany was his... and strangely enough, she didn’t seem like she belonged to Robb either.

She raised a hand. “No, Jon, please. Wait. There’s more.” Dany hesitated, and then spoke very softly. “I… when I interrupted that conversation you were having… it sounded like you’ve had feelings for me for a long time.”

He met her eyes, hardly daring to hope. “That’s true.”

“Jon, I’m so sorry,” she said, slowly, and his heart dropped to the ground. He stared at the table, eyes burning. But when at last he looked up again, Jon was surprised by the determined expression on Dany’s face.

“Jon,” she said, “there’s something I have to tell you.” His heart leapt almost painfully, but before he could speak she went on. “The truth is, before I even met you… I saw your work on Exotique.”

“Wait, I… Sorry, come again?”

Jon fixed Dany with a look of utter incomprehension. Of course, given her tastes, it wouldn't be beneath her to be aware of art folios, specifically one that dealt with digital art like Exotique. Jon was never completely convinced of Exotique’s claim of compiling the "finest digital characters" from around the world, but had decided to submit quite a number of his works anyway, chasing the possibility of being featured alongside artists he could only dream of working with someday. When his work had actually been selected, appearing thereafter in two separate folios, Jon kept his copies tucked away in his flat, only ever brought to light the day Arya spotted them behind a stack of video games she was borrowing. He’d never expected getting published would bring him any sort of recognition—let alone from the woman with whom he'd one day end up falling in love.  _What sort of insane coincidence was that?_  Jon thought—and, with a sudden retroactive rush of embarrassment, chastised himself for once considering submitting a digital rendering of Dany.

“I… didn’t even know you were into digital art,” he said slowly.

Although her voice was relatively steady, Dany’s fingers started picking at the stray piece of paint on the table. “I’ve always wanted to be an artist. Not to brag or anything, but I always thought I had the vision for it. I love art and have so much passion for it… Of course, this would all be a lot easier if I actually knew how to draw.”

The corners of her mouth lifted in faint amusement; intrigued, Jon leaned forward and listened. “So I got into photography instead. I travelled a lot, mostly by myself after I broke up with my boyfriend before Robb, and you probably know that I couldn’t really bring my brother along. I found my first copy of Exotique in probably the most unsanitary bazaar rack in San Francisco and that’s how I first saw your renderings.”

He was stunned. “Wait… when was that?”

Dany shrugged. “That was maybe two, three years ago.”

“Why didn’t you mention this before?” Jon pressed, utterly confused. “We’ve known each other for months.”

“Exactly,” Dany shrugged lightly, blue eyes dimming in recollection. “The opportunity never came up.”

The ache that bloomed in Jon’s chest was accompanied by the sad realisation that she was right. The only meaningful conversation Jon and Dany had ever had was the day they met, when Robb invited both of them to a pub to make introductions. Robb had beamed effusively as he came up to Jon at the bar, Dany shyly holding his arm, and Jon’s heart had sunk to realise that the beautiful girl he’d been arrested by as she walked through the door alone ten minutes prior was in fact  _not_  alone, but already taken by Jon’s own brother. 

Opportunities for conversation had presented themselves left and right after that – countless family dinners at the Starks’, Dany answering the phone when Jon called to make sure she and Robb were coming to Ned and Cat’s anniversary dinner, Jon accidentally running into the two of them en route to an exhibit at the Museum of London... she'd even come along with the family on seasonal shopping trips, for Christ's sake. Yet Jon had never taken the chance to really  _speak_  to Dany. No wonder his sketches of her always gave her eyes more smile than her lips, as if she were always just on the verge of saying something. He’d fallen in love with Dany without ever giving her the opportunity to speak, perhaps without ever truly knowing her. It took everything in Jon to stop himself from bursting into inappropriate laughter at this realisation, which would undoubtedly come off as cruel rather than understanding.

“God knows I tried to find the courage,” Dany continued, shaking her head. “Your work was— _is—_ brilliant, Jon. Just mindboggling, ridiculously inspiring stuff.”

Jon felt himself turning red. “Honestly?”

“I couldn’t get my mind off your work,” she replied, shaking her head slightly. “I knew I had to talk to you about how much art meant to me in general, and how everything you made spoke volumes.”

“I—wow,” Jon said, automatically moving to take another sip of his coffee. Once he realized that he’d drained it all during Dany’s speech, he quickly set his cup back down, hoping she wouldn’t notice. “Well… thank you, Dany.”

Dany shrugged, the light catching her dragon necklace for a split second. “Don’t mention it,” she smiled. “I don't suppose you remember that conversation we had at that pub, when Robb first introduced us?”

If she mentioned this a few minutes ago, Jon probably would’ve started sweating. Now though, he could almost picture the cheeky grin on Sam’s face if Sam could see his best friend was actually keeping his cool for once. “Yes! I do,” he replied, scratching his head a little. “Christ… that was ages ago, eh?”

“Yeah, it was,” Dany said, fiddling with the cuff of her jacket. She sighed. “The truth is, I spotted you out of that pub window and was just dying to talk to you about your art, but I didn’t want to seem like some fan you were gonna brush off in a few minutes.”

“So you stalled.”

“I did,” she smiled again, her hands mere inches from his own. “Then Robb showed up to introduce us,” she said, gently taking Jon’s hand in hers, “and—well. I really do care about you, Jon. I do. It’s just…”

“You were already in love,” he finished. Even now, with the sunlight streaming past her ear and the previous awkwardness of their conversation behind them, Jon realised that Dany glowed even more when she was with Robb— _because_  she was with Robb. He took a deep breath, silently taking in how she looked in the late afternoon sunshine, yet felt suddenly somehow freed from the artistic spell that had drawn him to her for so long. “When you and I met.”

Dany let out a soft sigh. “I was,” she said. “I still am.”

“Of course,” Jon replied, and he could feel the words coming to him more steadily, and easily. “Robb’s a wonderful guy.” He paused, needing to be certain. “You don’t regret what happened, though? Or was it—some kind of mistake?”

Dany shook her head slowly. “I don’t think it was.”

“I suppose it’s none of my business and I don't mean to pry, but… are you going to tell him?”

Dany stared into space for a few moments. “I... I don’t think so. I don’t think it has anything to do with him, and it would only hurt his feelings if he knew.” She lifted her eyes to fix Jon with a powerful stare. “I can’t control what you do, but…”

Jon nodded. “I don’t know, Dany. He’s my brother… but I suppose I’m equally concerned about hurting  _you_. So I can’t honestly say if on my own, I’d’ve said anything to him or not. But if you don’t want me to—if it would hurt your relationship—then I won’t. It’s that simple.”

She looked genuinely pained. “I’m so sorry to put you in this position, Jon. Robb is your brother, and you love him—I know it may hurt to keep this a secret from him. I’m sorry things have to be this way.”

“Don’t apologise, Dany,” Jon said firmly. “The fault is just as much mine as it is yours.”

She nodded, looking deeply understanding. “He loves you  _so_  much, you know. The way Robb talks about you… It’s beautiful. You’re such an important part of his life, Jon, and I feel honoured to be part of that even in some small way.” Dany let out a long breath, mouth twisting into a tiny relieved smile. “I’m… really glad we talked about this.”

Jon nodded firmly. “I’m glad we talked this through, too.”

“So, we’re friends now, yeah?” she asked cautiously, although he noticed that her voice significantly perked up. “All of this is behind us now?”

“I know it will be,” Jon said, comfortably smiling for the first time since their conversation started. “Maybe I could paint you and Robb together someday.”

“You would?” Dany echoed. She crossed her arms and leaned back against her seat. “Honestly, Jon?”

“Oh yeah,” he nodded, a dozen concepts crossing his mind already.  _Too soon?_  “Maybe for your next holiday card, sort of Kate and William. Or like a John and Yoko thing, I think that’d suit you two nicely.”

“Oh shut up,” she laughed, rolling her eyes. “We’ve only just started being friends, Jon.”

“Right, right,” Jon said, laughing easily along with her. “Can’t mess things up now, can I?”

Even now, bearing witness to Dany’s easy happiness, it hurt. But Jon knew that he could stand it. Sometimes things happened in this world that were unfair, and his and Dany’s lost chance at a deeper connection was one of them. But there was something comforting about the fact that on some level, in some abstract way, she felt the same for him that he felt for her. Even if that connection was based on his art, it was special.

It wasn’t going to be easy to move on. But Jon knew that he owed it to everyone, especially himself, to try.

 

 

**Renly**

On the first day that 10 Downing Street resumed working with all staff at full capacity, Renly saw Loras just as he was coming down the hallway to go into his study. “Oh—hello,” he said, abruptly stopping in the doorway and smiling with a feeling rather akin to a criminal getting caught in the act.

“Hi,” Loras said, smiling back. Holding a stack of leather-bound folders he asked tentatively, “May I… come in?”

“Yes, of course.” Renly went into his study and crossed the room, cradling his steaming mug of coffee in one hand; behind him, he heard Loras come in and close the door. Renly hesitated as he set his coffee down upon his desk, and once again before he turned around. “How have you been?” he said politely, drawing his eyes slowly over Loras.

Loras looked as neat and gorgeous as always, yet he seemed to be hanging onto Renly’s every word. “Excellent, thanks,” he replied, his face bright. “And you?”

“Wonderful. Just… wonderful.” Renly was torn between duty and what he wanted so desperately to do, and say. Actually, duty was stopping him from knowing exactly what he  _did_  want to do or say.

He and Loras hadn’t seen each other since the night of the New Year’s Eve party. When he had kissed Loras, Renly had practically felt like he was walking on air—until he’d woken up the following morning and nearly had a panic attack. How could he have done that? How could he have risked everything for the scandal of a young, beautiful man who deserved better than his old and politically inhibited self? Better than someone who had buried his own sexuality so deep he hardly knew what it felt like to access it anymore?

Renly cleared his throat. “Your party was… quite nice. Very enjoyable. Your grandmother was a bit scary, but I’m sure you’re used to hearing that.”

Loras smiled. “She said she liked you.”

Renly inclined his head, remembering. He gave an embarrassed sort of cough. “I gathered. And how’re your sister and her, ah—you know, the girlfriends?”

Loras gave a clipped little laugh. “Well, they already live together, so it’s going quite well from what I hear.” At Renly’s raised eyebrow, he smiled ironically and explained, “They were roommates to begin with. Lesbians. They move fast, you know.”

This gave Renly a genuine snort of laughter, and Loras smiled with almost eager relief to see it. But Loras’s smile was a bit wary, too, as if sensing the reserve in Renly’s bearing, like he could tell that something was wrong. He would be put out, of course, Renly thought with a painful stab of guilt, that Renly hadn’t texted or called after Loras had taken the pre-emptive measure of entering his number into Renly’s phone. And he would certainly be upset that Renly had dashed out of the Tyrell mansion as soon as he had woken up with a start the next morning, long before anyone else in the house had gotten up.

Seeing Loras’s emotions written across his face now, Renly was brought back to his awful dilemma on New Year’s morning. Thinking about their potential future, all the viable options, all Renly had been able to see was his and Loras’s names together in 2-inch-high print on the cover of  _The Globe_ ; screaming headlines on the  _Daily Mail_  and  _Hello!_ magazine; his love life taking precedent on the nightly news, overshadowing everything else he’d worked so hard for in his political career. It wouldn’t be fair for either of them, would it, the measures they’d have to take to avoid that fate?  _Would it?_

Right. Now it was down to the tricky business. “Loras,” Renly said carefully, meeting Loras’ eyes. He would have to tread carefully, he knew. “What we did was fantastic, but I feel as if… we can’t feasibly carry on.”

Loras’ face looked as if he had just had a door slammed shut in front of him. He released a sharp breath.

For one long, excruciating moment, Loras stared at Renly with slightly reddened, questioning eyes, and Renly couldn’t think of a single thing to say. He desperately wondered if he ought to qualify his statement—but how could he, when all he had were weak excuses that would only make it clear that he was doing not what he truly wanted to, but only what he felt he should?

Finally Loras spoke. “I’m not stupid, you know,” he said, shocking Renly with his abruptness. Then he hesitated, subsiding slightly and clearly hovering on the perceived brink of propriety— _He’s such a mannered young man, after all_ , Renly thought vaguely, as if remembering something he’d learned a very long time ago. Then Loras suddenly burst out in a rush of words, hot temper clearly lurking just below the surface. “But look, if you think I’m not good enough for you, or if you kissed me just because you thought it would be a laugh—”

“Loras! God, no! No, it’s nothing like that at all.” Renly paused, despairing over what he was about to say. “My intention was  _never_  to play with your feelings. And perhaps if I weren’t the Prime Minister, we could—we might—things could be different.”

“But you are,” Loras pressed on, staring at Renly with hot eyes. He really wasn’t giving an inch; he was showing a steely tenacity that Renly had never seen in him before. “You  _are_  the Prime Minister. And look, I—I fancy you. You’re not like any bloke I’ve ever met, and I… I think that if you feel the same that we shouldn’t just say that it’s not worth it. What are you,” he demanded almost furiously, “some sort of martyr to your political party? To your nation?”

Renly was stunned. He’d expected Loras to give in, to fold up like a folding chair, to accept the defeat that Renly had already internalised—but clearly he had underestimated just exactly what Loras was made of. “I—”

“If you tell me to go,” Loras said firmly, straightening up, “I’ll go. But don’t string me along, Renly, because I’m _not_  going to swan around here pretending that everything is fine between us, and that you never kissed me,” he paused to swallow hard, Adam’s apple jerking in his throat, “and that I can actually  _look_  at you without feeling as if I’m going to go into cardiac arrest. I won’t.”

“Is that really how you feel,” Renly said. He heard his own words come out as stiffly as if another person had said them. But really he was so shocked that he could not have forced emotion into the words if he’d tried.

“Yes.” Loras was blushing now almost angrily, but defiantly. “That’s how I feel about you. And I wish maybe I didn’t, because then things would be easier. But that’s how I feel, and I’m sorry if that offends you, or it’s  _inconvenient_.”

Renly closed his eyes for a moment.  _What did I ever do to deserve this?_  He’d closed the door on the idea of love a long time ago, when he’d first determined he wanted to be in politics. Yet here in front of him was the most perfect man he’d met in a long time, possibly ever, basically offering himself up on a plate to Renly.

“Oh, Loras, I feel the same way,” he replied, almost in a whisper, and Loras let out a sharp rush of breath. “I do.”

The look of relief on Loras’s face was so acute that Renly practically felt it in his own chest like a shard of glass.  _Oh, Christ,_  he thought almost despairingly, _we’ve really fallen hard, the two of us, haven’t we?_  “Look. It wouldn’t be easy,” he said slowly, drawing up to sit on the edge of his desk so that he faced Loras. “In fact it would be very, very difficult. I don’t think I would be comfortable asking you to do that—to start anything with me.”

“But if I said I was all right with it…” Loras responded, looking hard at Renly.

“Loras, I—” He was struggling to voice his thoughts. “You’re young; you have your entire life just waiting for you. I’m older, bound by political constraints outside my control to stay in the closet, and—my entire life is public. I can’t give you a public life, not the kind that you deserve, and I can’t ask you to enter into this secrecy with me. There are so many other possibilities out there for you: you could be with anyone, Loras, and—”

“Look,” Loras burst out. “I don’t know see people always make such an enormous fuss about being young. It’s not so wonderful as you all make out—it’s horribly confusing, in fact. I’m only twenty-five; I’m still immature. There are only a few things I’m good at, and my life has been easy. But if you give me the chance to be with you, Renly—that would really mean something. You make me feel focused, and  _important_ , and useful. You make me want to be older, and I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”

“You’re not putting me on a pedestal at all here,” Renly murmured, only half-teasing.

Loras rolled his eyes impatiently as if it was all ridiculously simple, and perhaps, to him, it was. “Well I’m sorry to break it to you, sir, but you’re the Prime Minister. I didn’t put you on a pedestal—you were already way up there when I met you.” He paused. “And it’s not only hero worship, what I feel. I mean, the authority thing is really a turn-on, but there’s also the fact that you’re just so handsome, and ever since I saw you in person I’ve wanted to suck y—”

“All right!” Renly said, relenting, almost blushing. He released a hasty breath, wiping his hand over his forehead. “All right.”

“So  _do_  you feel the same way about me,” Loras breathed, insistent, “that I feel about you?”

“Yes,” Renly admitted, with a mingled feeling of triumph and defeat. He gave up. He did. “Yes, I—all right. We can try this."

“And you do feel the same way,” Loras repeated, doggedly. His face was shining with something like excitement mixed with relief, and childish happiness.

Renly placed both palms on the sides of the desk, bracing himself. “God, is that even a question? I ran after you on New Year’s, didn’t I?” He shook his head at the very memory. “I got your holiday card and drove across London just to see you, like some lovesick teenager.”

Loras softened, and warmed, his smile threatening to spill over. “That was probably the best moment of my life,” he confessed quietly. “Seeing you show up like that, and knowing that you’d gotten my letter and actually decided to come.”

Renly took a deep breath. This was it, then—he was taking the plunge. He was going to do it.

“I think maybe, actually,” he said directly, reaching out to pull Loras in by the tie, “we could top that. If you stick around long enough, that is.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Loras breathed, the corners of his eyes crinkling up with the intensity of his smile.

Then he leaned in and kissed Renly so hard and sowell that Renly forgot his political office, the fact that he was Prime Minister, practically his own name. He didn’t however, forget that his study where they were currently kissing was one of the few rooms in 10 Downing Street not monitored by CCTV, and that the door automatically locked. Renly Baratheon was nothing if not expedient.

Whoever said that love and politics didn’t mix?

 

 

#  _The End_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic really was a labor of love, taking over ten drafts and about four months to finish, and we hope you enjoyed it! The original idea for a sprawling Love Actually AU was all Erika's (notsmokingcamellights), and she deserves full credit for that :) 
> 
> Erika came up with most of the romantic storyline ideas, from the Jon/Robb/Dany love triangle, Jaime and Brienne being antagonistic professors, Tyrion and Shae having the writer-goes-to-France storyline, to Sansa and Margaery's story starting with a Secret Santa reveal! Brainstorming after that was a joint effort. Erika wrote mainly Jon/Robb/Dany, while Jade (heart_nouveau) wrote the other storylines and did final edits.
> 
>  
> 
> **Here are some multimedia links to keep you entertained:**
> 
>   * Erika's [rom-com mix](http://8tracks.com/notsmokingcamellights/this-isn-t-bridget-jones), her mix for the [Tyrell house party](http://8tracks.com/notsmokingcamellights/highgarden-house-party), and Jade's mix for [the Tyrell siblings](http://8tracks.com/heart-nouveau/tyrell-twosome).
>   * The massive photo albums Jade made as research inspiration: [all in one](https://plus.google.com/b/101035241868008320435/photos/101035241868008320435/albums/6006483209262671393?sort=1), one for the [Starks at Winterfell](https://plus.google.com/b/101035241868008320435/photos/101035241868008320435/albums/6005030522404690129?sort=1), one for [Robb and Dany's wedding](https://plus.google.com/b/101035241868008320435/photos/101035241868008320435/albums/6006481208378436865?sort=1), and one for [the Tyrells and their posh London lifestyle](https://plus.google.com/b/101035241868008320435/photos/101035241868008320435/albums/6004273706271557569?sort=1).
>   * Also, for all you Sansa/Margaery shippers, here is a direct quote from Love Actually's director, Richard Curtis: 
>
>> There were more storylines. The secret behind the whole storyline thing is I had a back operation and had to do a lot of walking, so I figured I couldn’t write dialogue while I was so frail, so I’d just write a lot of stories. I’d go out for a two-hour walk and then come back and write storylines. The first 170-page draft that I gave to my girlfriend had about four extra stories in it. There was a story which we shot and cut that had to do with Emma Thompson’s son’s ferocious head mistress who is very unfair to him, and then it cuts to her living with a woman who’s very un-well; there was a story about a girl in a wheelchair; **there was a story about two schoolgirls in love that we didn’t do** ; and there was a dreadful story based on a friend of mine who wrote an entire pop album about a girl he liked at school, and then they actually let him make the album. ([source](http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2013/11/07/love-actually-s-10th-anniversary-the-cast-and-crew-reminisce-about-the-christmas-classic.html)) 
> 
> We're just doing the Lorde's work, people :) 

> 
> **Disclaimer:** We are not British. Any mistakes made in British slang are entirely our own, and we apologize (apologise?). 
> 
> We have already discussed writing more within this universe, and expect to follow this up with some sequels or prequels someday! Feel free to talk to us on Tumblr here ([heart_nouveau](http://www.roseroadkingsroad.tumblr.com)) and here ([notsmokingcamellights](http://www.yesravenreyes.tumblr.com))!
> 
> The title of this fic is from [the Lorde song by the same name](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N8aSrLda8_Q&feature=kp).


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